


Back There With You

by captaincharming



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: It's okay though, M/M, captain charming au, emt david, fisherman killian, separation fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 05:58:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5528651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaincharming/pseuds/captaincharming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian should have stayed back there with him, on the coast of Maine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back There With You

**Author's Note:**

> finished, finally! this started out as a simple little 10k fic that took on a mind of its own.

“Did he call?”

“No.”

“Did  _you_ call?”

“No.”

“Are you going to?”

“Hell no.”

“David…”

“I don’t want to talk about it, okay? I don’t want to talk about today, or him, or me. I don’t want to talk about anything.” David’s snapping, he knows he is, but he can’t bring himself to feel guilty about it. Robin has been oddly insistent on checking in with him lately, forcing conversation about feelings and decisions and other topics David’s just uncomfortable with in general. David wonders, paranoid, if he knows about the papers David dropped in the mail last week. The ones he’d had to take to a mailbox two counties away because he couldn’t stomach the thought of them sitting in one at the South Portland post office. Documents intended to divide a home don’t belong anywhere near it.

Robin is watching him over the rim of his disposable coffee cup, so intent on his scrutiny that he hasn’t made his usual comment on the bitterness of the hospital’s brew. His eyes are pitying, which is the last thing David needs right now. He’s had enough of that to last at least another lifetime.

David gulps his own scalding coffee, grimacing at the taste but determined to finish their break as soon as possible. He should have known better than to suggest grabbing a bite before radioing in as available again. Robin always gets chatty after he eats. Despite his best efforts, David’s not fast enough to ward off an unwelcome and unsolicited observation from Robin.

“You called him last year, you know.”

David tips his head back, unseeing eyes trained on the dull fluorescent glow somehow unique to hospital lighting. He feels a too-familiar weight creep into his chest, the one usually reserved for the nights he spends lying awake, staring at the dark ceiling and trying not to suffocate on misery. He doesn’t think even his fellow EMTs at South Portland’s fire department could save him from that.

“I drank enough last year to put down an ox. I think I can be excused a momentary lapse of reason,” David says to the ceiling, throat constricting on a dry swallow. He can still taste the nausea he’d awoken to after that ill-advised drunk dial. If there’d been any time for the blackout type of drunk, that was it. But it seems David couldn’t even get that right.

“I don’t think it’s unreasonable for a guy to want to talk to his husband on their anniversary,” Robin counters calmly. David drops his head fast enough to disorient himself, fixing Robin with a vicious glare.

“Seriously, don’t,” he warns, mortified at how little it takes to wet his eyes these days. It’s not like Robin even said  _his_ name. No one has said his name to David in more than six months, and he honestly kind of misses the sound. He won’t even let himself whisper it in the dark of their bedroom anymore, terrified of some Bloody Mary-type scenario in which he summons the ghost of husbands past. Or something like that.

Robin senses his distress, too little too late, but seems content to let the subject drop. He gathers up the remains of their meager lunch, dumping what he can in the recycling on their way out of the emergency room staff’s breakroom. He covers for David’s curt farewells to the nurses at the front desk, lingering back while David stalks out to the truck.

David slides behind the wheel even though it’s technically Robin’s day to drive. He doesn’t feel equipped to handle the radio today and knows Robin won’t protest to the switch. David runs his hand over the bench seat absently, cracks in the leather a testament to how many hours he and Robin have spent in their vehicle. It’s stupid to project emotions onto inanimate objects, but it’s also hard not to feel a little resentful of everything the rig represents, his broken marriage chief among them. If David’s beleaguered sigh closely resembles a sob, that’s between him and the squad.

Robin slings open the door, startling David from his preoccupation. Like he guessed, Robin doesn’t say a word about the change of position. After he calls in their availability, he natters on, like he always does after a hospital visit, about Dr. Mills and all of her outstanding qualities. David doesn’t attempt to follow, knowing it’s all something he’s heard before. Robin doesn’t require conversation anyway, is content with the occasional grunt of acknowledgment from David while he waxes poetic about Regina’s “no-nonsense approach to medicine, honestly David, I think she could run that hospital all on her own, given the chance. She’s like magic, I swear.”

The day is a slow one, no major emergencies or fires at the oil refinery or anything worth noting. As soon as he catches himself half hoping for a catastrophe to occupy his mind, David knows he’s let this feeling sorry for himself thing go too far. It’s just a day, not unlike any other day. There’s nothing special about December 10th. In fact, they’d picked it  _because_ it was so unremarkable. No important historical events or major celebrity births. No significance to either of their friends or families. David had originally wanted to get married on Christmas, but Killian had insisted that he didn’t want to share their day with “the rest of the world, honestly Dave, can you imagine other people getting presents on  _our_ anniversary? It’d be worse than being born on the 25th, I think.”

David flinches away from the sound of the voice in his head, from the shape of the name behind his eyes. His knuckles go white around the steering wheel, his jaw clenched tight enough to cause a headache to bloom, fast and fierce at his temples. Robin notices, halting in his elocution of all of Dr. Mills’ attributes. “You okay?” he asks quickly, the same question he’s asked David every day since he came home one night to a house emptied of half its things. It’s always with the same tone, mostly genuine concern, but laced with a tinge of apprehension, like Robin isn’t sure how David will react this time. It’s a fair concern, given how volatile David’s response had been in the days and weeks immediately following Killian’s...well, Killian’s fucking cowardly desertion of their life. He just packed up and left, never giving David a choice in the direction their marriage would go. If you could call straight to hell a direction, that is.

David shakes his head when Robin lays a hand on his arm, not trusting himself to speak without dissolving into blubbered hysterics. It hits him like this sometimes, hard and sudden, unannounced in a way that’s impossible to shore himself against. It’s cruelly reminiscent of the way David fell in love with Killian, completely blindsided by the critically injured yet impossibly flirtatious fishing boat captain David’s squad had been called to assist, over nine years ago. David rescued Killian but Killian consumed David, and they never looked back. Not once, which makes what happened to them all the more unbearable. It’s hard to explain how you managed to run headfirst into a brick wall.

Robin watches on in concern as David attempts to steady himself, stumbling through the deep breathing exercises he presses on his patients. After several repetitions of in for four, hold for nine, out for eight, David feels gathered enough to shrug Robin’s hand off, albeit gently. He manages a weak but grateful smile, the tremble at the corners of his mouth belying the calm he’s trying to project. Robin would have seen through it regardless.

“We’re ten minutes from end of shift. Let’s just head in, yeah?” Robin cajoles, reaching for the radio. He takes David’s silence as acquiesce, calling them in as off-duty. David points the truck in the direction of the station, thanking his admittedly impotent lucky stars that he’s not on call and doesn’t have to sleep at the firehouse tonight. There’s an unopened bottle of whiskey on his kitchen counter that’s been calling to him all week.

Robin seems reluctant to part ways once they’re clocked out and dressed down, giving an endless list of suggestions for things to do. David hasn’t this had many options for a night out since before he was married. He wonders if that’ll change once he no longer is.

That thought turns his whiskey’s distant call to a pronounced shout, the desire to lose himself in the blankness of an alcohol-induced sleep far stronger than any compelling need to assure Robin he’s fine. David shakes him off in the parking lot, promising to go home and lose himself in reruns of  _Kitchen Nightmares_ and microwave jalapeno poppers, nevermind what Gordon Ramsay would have to say about such cuisine.

It’s dark by the time David pulls into his driveway, the porchlight he can never remember to put a timer on providing no help as he picks his way up the overgrown path to the front door. He sighs, put upon, when he admits that his “last mow of the year” was never going to cut it. He just really didn’t want to have to fill the gascan again. If he’s honest, David can hardly find the motivation to pull his car in the garage. Yard work is often completely beyond him.

The switch for the entry light is just inside the front door, but David doesn’t bother to hit it on his way in. His eyes have adjusted to the dimness enough to where he can make his way to the kitchen uninhibited, despite the mess of shoes and non-perishable groceries strewn down the hall. The darkness suits his mood, anyway. He adds the shoes he’s currently wearing to the growing pile, taking a vindictive pleasure in knowing Killian would have a conniption over the state of the house.

The bottle of jack is exactly where he left it, glinting invitingly in the sliver of light from his neighbor’s garage. David grabs it, crossing over to where the kitchen opens directly into the living room. He collapses over the back of the couch, can’t be bothered to walk around. Killian says that destroys their structural integrity, but David figures he didn’t give a shit about what leaving would do to David’s structural integrity. Why should David give a fuck about this couch?

David abandons his search for the remote after approximately 15 seconds in favor of opening the whiskey with his teeth. He spares a thought for the jalapeno poppers he never fixed but ultimately decides the alcohol is dinner enough. He imagines every swallow to be a different nutrient, moving on when he decides he’s reached his daily recommended values. The longer he drinks, the more each sip takes on the taste of a regret, a lamentation of things said and things that should have been said. David hasn’t felt Killian’s absence so keenly in a long time, but now every sound and shadow sparks a memory, every shudder-inducing shot of liquor carves out the scar tissue that had begun to grow over his place in David’s heart. The crushing weight is back, so heavy David wants to scream but keeps silent for fear it would come out more like a muffled squeak.

David loses track of time for a while, no longer drinking but just sitting, letting the weight press him back into the couch cushions. They swallow him up easily, an attestation to the amount of time he spends here. He remembers how Killian used to beg for a single night in after a long week at work, completely out of character because Killian loved nothing more than going out, allegedly to show off his husband, but really just to show off in general. It spoke to how little they saw each other towards the end that Killian grew to prefer the house, the one they spent money they didn’t have to fill with things they didn’t need. David would have been happy with a fridge in the kitchen, a rug in the living room, and a mattress on the floor of the bedroom, as long as Killian was in it. But Killian had always quietly longed for things, and David’s young, foolish heart had delighted in nothing more than being able to provide his husband with anything he wanted. Except himself, apparently.

Looking around now, David is seized by a fleeting desire to douse the entire room in his whiskey and light a match. It fades fairly quickly, but in the days immediately following Killian’s walkout, the compulsion to burn it all to the ground had been almost too strong to resist. David stayed with Robin for a few of those nights, lest he suddenly find himself both husbandless and homeless at once. He supposes his propensity for anger speaks to why Killian had left without a word, rather than try to talk to him. David had known things were bad, he wasn’t obtuse. But he never would have guessed that Killian was to the point of throwing it all away without a second thought.

David squirms for a moment, restless as ever at the idea of the person he loved more than the world had found it so easy to leave him twisting in the wind. He’d always thought that Killian had loved him at least as much as he loved ( _loves_ , he corrects himself firmly) Killian. David can’t imagine, if the roles were reversed, that he’d have been able to walk away like that.

Even stronger than David’s desire for destruction of their shared property is his desire for answers from the man he once thought had held the keys to the universe. He and Killian haven’t spoken, properly spoken, since the night before Killian took off. David had called, frantically at first, then angrily once he’d calmed down enough to realize that no one who might have kidnapped Killian would have taken his belongings as well, and that meant Killian had left on his own. He’d left messages until Killian’s inbox was full, had texted until he was sure his thumbs would bleed, but Killian hadn’t responded to any of his missives, save for one. He’d answered when David called, drunk and heartsick, exactly a year ago. David had been so surprised at the sound of his voice that he’d hung up, and Killian didn’t attempt to call him back. Now, though, now he thinks he could handle it, that rich, velvet voice on the other end of the line. He’s had just enough alcohol to convince him to seek the answers to the questions that’ll eat him up faster than any drink.

The search for his phone is a lot more successful than the one for the remote, and before he really realizes it, David has dialed Killian’s number, not coordinated enough to scroll through his contacts for his name, but fingers remembering the digits like a heartsong. He clutches the phone to his ear, the whiskey to his chest, and waits for the other end to pick up. The call rings down the line once, twice. By the time it gets to four, David knows he’s almost out of trills. He also knows it takes Killian ages to wrestle his phone from the pockets of his ridiculously tight jeans, so he doesn’t lose hope. He takes another shot to fortify his courage as the phone rings just one more time. He nearly chokes when it clicks over to voicemail, his reaction to Killian’s voice almost identical to last year’s.

_“You’ve reached Killian Jones. If I’m not answering, it’s because I’m trawling or screening, which are remarkably similar processes, if you think about it. Either way, we’re not talking and you’re not imparting your information, so do it at the beep.”_

There’s a beep, or David assumes there’s a beep, he can’t be sure when all he can hear is Killian’s voice informing him he’s reached Killian Jones. Killian Jones. Killian hasn’t been Killian Jones in nine years. He’s a Nolan,  _they’re_ Nolans, and David is going to be sick. He’s not sure what he expected after two years of virtually zero contact, but not this. Never this. He knows it's not a legal name change, more of a statement on Killian's part, but it doesn't ease the ache. Distantly, he’s aware that the voicemail is recording a message, and that he’s waited long enough to hang up that it won’t be automatically discarded. That Killian is going to get a message full of heavy breathing and a possible whimper. David panics, wracks his brain for something to say. Anything has to be better than creepy breath sounds.

He settles on: “My shoes are all in the entryway. I don’t think there’s a single pair in the closet. You’d kill me. If...if you were here.” Sucking in a shaky breath, David continues. “I don’t really cook anymore. All that couscous you bought went to waste. I never even liked couscous, to be honest.” David can hear himself, he  _hears_ himself, he knows he sounds like an idiot. But it’s like hearing Killian refer to himself as Jones broke something in him, and now that it’s broken it refuses to be fixed. It’s a dam that can’t be stemmed. It’s a wound that’s impossible to stop bleeding.

“I’m trying really hard to break the back of the couch down. I’ve fallen over it like, 712 times, but it still seems as secure as ever. I feel like I haven’t actually set foot in the living room in like a year. I just fall over the couch.” David laughs then, imagining Killian’s face at that news, a mixture of disapproving and amused because he always found a drunk David amusing. It’s a good face. It’s David’s favorite face. He wants Killian to keep making it, so he goes on. “Robin asked me if I was gonna call you today. I said no, I said hell no, but I knew I was going to. What kind of husband doesn’t call their...th-the other husband on their anniversary?” David loses track of where he was going with that, pauses for a swig of whiskey. The burn ignites the train of thought that sparks his temper, hand clenching tighter around both bottle and phone. One creaks ominously, and David isn’t sure which one he’d regret losing more.

“I guess the you-type of husband though, right? You’ve missed two, you know. You’ve missed  _everything_ , but mostly two. This…..this is nine. We’re at number nine, but you’re not here. I don’t-” David laughs again, but it’s meaner this time. He feels meaner, can feel the need to dig in and hurt licking up under his skin, carried along his bloodstream by the whiskey in his veins. “I don’t know where you are. We’re at nine, but I have no fucking clue where you’re at. I don’t know if anyone knows, other than you.” David tries to think if anyone has ever mentioned knowing, but the alcohol is clouding everything but his anger. He would remember someone telling him where his husband was, though, even back in the days he didn’t want to know. It just makes him angrier to think they might know, and they haven’t told him. “No one talks to me about you, you know? I haven’t heard your goddamn name in months. And it’s not like every guy and their brother is walking around named Killian. So I don’t even hear it in passing.”

Somehow David has migrated to the floor, lying spread-eagle on the carpet with his whiskey on his chest. He tips it up for a precarious drink, cursing when it runs across his cheek to pool in his ear. He yanks his phone away, wiping it hurriedly on his shirt before fumbling for the speakerphone button. Once he’s satisfied, he situates the phone next to him on the floor, tucking one arm under his head as he tracks the lazy rotation of the ceiling fan. It makes him dizzy after a while, and he goes back to talking, hoping Killian isn’t bothered by the stretch of silence. Or maybe hoping he is.

“I can’t hear my name anymore, either,” he admits quietly, head angled towards the phone, praying it picks him up. “I mean, people say it. But they don’t say it like you. I don’t even remember how you say it. I can’t-” David chokes on a wet sob, hand over his stinging eyes. “No one calls me ‘Dave’. I know I tell people not to, and I know I gave you so much shit for it but...I think I’d let you run me over with one of the fire engines if you’d call me that while you did it. Sometimes I want...I wish you had, you know? I think it’d’ve been better than where I am. And I-” Another pause, another muffled sob, but now David is angry again, moodswings making his head spin. Or maybe that’s the whiskey he hasn’t stopped drinking. “I hate you sometimes,” he whispers, admitting his not-so-well-kept secret like tearing flesh. He doesn’t hate Killian. He love love loves- “A lot of times. I hate you a lot of times. Mostly now. Now today and now at night. And in the morning. And at work and the grocery store and the pier...especially the pier, I think. I told your crew I hope your boat sinks. But I don’t. I like your boat. I hope you sink, I guess. You should have sank. I should have let you.”

David’s eyes are growing heavy, the sound of his own rambling lulling him to sleep. He feels convicted, doesn’t want to leave Killian on such a bitter note, but he doesn’t know what else there is to say. Killian doesn’t deserve his words of love, no matter how close they bubble to the surface, begging to spill over in a litany of admiration and adoration. Killian deserves the truth, he supposes. It’s the one thing he wishes to receive from Killian, so maybe karma will see fit to swing back around in his favor. He thinks he’s earned it.

David struggles to sit up, wants this next part of his message to be achingly clear. “I sent you papers. Well, I sent Will papers. I assume he knows where you are. They...I...they’re divorce papers, Kil. I want...I need you to be rid of me, if that’s what you want. Because I can’t keep being yours when you’re not mine. If I thought you were still mine, I’d-” David stops because he can’t. He can’t give Killian this part of him, not when he has literally everything else. He can’t give him this vulnerability, this utter weakness. He can’t tell him that if Killian still belonged to him, David would give up anything Killian ever asked him to.

He reaches for the phone, cradles it in his palms. The jack bottle rolls away past his hip, empty and unnoticed. “If you...all you have to do is sign them and send them back. I’ll take care of the rest. I didn’t do a lot for you over the years, I guess that’s why you left, but I can do this. Just...send ‘em back. And I won’t call, I promise. I won’t say anything. We won’t...have to do anything, okay? Just let me know.”

David goes to end the call, cringing when he sees it’s over ten minutes long. Part of him hopes Killian deletes it without ever listening, and part of him is terrified he’ll do just that. When they first started dating, Killian had saved every message David ever sent him, even if it was to yell at him for being late somewhere. He said he never wanted to be without the sound of his voice, and wanted a variety of tones to remember it by. Now David has to wonder whether he’ll listen to them at all.

But there’s that saying; “the more things change, the more they stay the same.” It flits, unbidden, through David’s mind as he holds the phone to his mouth, unable to end the call without his customary signoff, though he doesn’t ever remember having to speak it through a sudden flood of hot tears.

“Love you, babe.”

 

-x-

 

“He sent you something, you know. I haven’t opened it, but I think it’s probably a big deal. You could come visit. Pick it up. See what he wants.”

Killian sighs into the phone, shifting to tuck it against his shoulder. He needs to work on repairing this winder. He doesn’t have time for Will’s suppositions.

“Yeah well, I don’t have an abundance of free time, Will. You know that autumn is peak crabbing season.” Will responds with a sigh of his own. Killian frowns, annoyed. Will called  _him_ , not the other way around. He has no right to get testy.

“Why are you doing that, anyway? You’re a fisherman, not a...crabber.”

Killian shrugs, nearly dislodging his phone. He drops his tools in time to steady it, fumbling for a moment and undoubtedly making a ton of racket. He ignores Will sardonically wondering if he’s died. “It’s good money,” he huffs, abandoning his work for now. Will seems like he’s in the mood for one of his “good, long talks”. Killian will never admit this, but he’s missed their time together since he moved. Killian’s heart gives a funny twist at his mislabelling of his decision to leave the coast of Maine.

He didn’t move. He ran.

“Are you hurtin’ for money? I thought you were doing all right?” Will asks, serious now. Killian feels a rush of affection at the concern in his voice. Will’s a good friend. He deserves better than Killian’s treatment of him. A lot of people deserve better, and one in particular, but Killian is decidedly not thinking about that. Especially not today.

“Nah, just never hurts to have a little saved up, yeah? Rainy days and all,” Killian deflects, hefting himself out of his dilapidated armchair. Despite its ragged appearance, it’s Killian’s favorite piece of furniture. He’d gotten it right after he’d arrived in Oregon. He hadn’t had any ‘rainy day’ money at that time, could barely afford his first hole-the-wall, one-room apartment. He’d gone down to the secondhand store on the corner and come home with this gem of a chair. Green plaid, ripped down the back, $20. He’d been proud of the purchase, convinced that buying furniture for his new place was the first step to moving on. Nowadays, he can’t remember why he was so eager to move on in the first place.

Killian grabs a beer from the fridge, popping the lid off against the counter as Will laughs in his ear. “Plenty of those in the great northwest, huh?” he says, but Killian knows that he gets what Killian really meant.

“No more so than the great northeast, I suppose.” Killian sips at his beer, wanting to ask but not quite knowing how. Casually, he supposes. “So uh, how are things up that way?” Will’s snort lets him know he wasn’t nearly as casual as he was going for.

“Does ‘things’ have a name, by chance?” Will asks innocently. Killian hears a kettle whistling in the background, and is struck with a sudden wave of homesickness. There are plenty of cold, rainy days to spend sitting around drinking tea in Bayshore, but Killian doesn’t like to spend a lot of time doing nothing. He has to keep actively engaged in something, lest his mind begin to wander somewhere it’s hard to come back from.

Will’s impatient huff lets him know that he expects an answer, and Killian feels tired enough that he doesn’t want to do their usual back-and-forth about this. “Fine. David. Have you talked to him?” Killian’s hands sweat against the neck of his beer, heart lodged somewhere near the base of his throat. He hates asking, hates that, after two years, he still desperately needs to know. That he has never been able to leave this behind.

Will sounds sympathetic, like he always does, but Killian lacks the capacity to get upset over it. It’s not like he has any dignity to protect when it comes to David. He never has.

“I haven’t talked to him in a while. He called me on my birthday, but that’s been months ago, you know.” Killian nods along, already knowing this. David is so goddamn...frustrating. Endearing was the first word that came to mind, but Killian’s trained himself not to think of him in affectionate terms. But honestly, who calls their estranged husband’s best friend to wish them a happy birthday? Killian gulps at his beer to shake off the skin-crawling effect ‘estranged’ has on him. He hates that word.

“Like I said, though, he sent you something,” Will continues. “It’s a pretty big envelope. And, like, it’s not like he’s big on the whole communication stuff, is he? He’s only called you once since the initial fallout, right?”

“Yeah,” Killian half sighs, flashing back to that call. Exactly a year ago, probably right around this time of day. Killian had lost his breath when he’d seen David’s picture on his caller ID, his bright smile a sharp contrast to the emotions constricting Killian’s airway. He’d answered out of panic, stuttering out some greeting. All he’d heard on the other end was a surprised gasp before David hung up. Killian had immediately gone to reconnect the call, but was stopped by crippling doubt. By years and miles and tears and fights. He’d given up the right to ring David up when he’d fled the home they built. And he hadn’t heard from David since.

Will keeps talking, oblivious to Killian’s pained recollection. “That’s what I’m saying. He never reaches out. It must be pretty important, man.”

Killian swallows more lager, stalling, but he knows Will is right. If David felt the need to send him something, it must be of utmost importance. As ridiculous as it sounds seeing as they’re  _married_ , talking is something they don’t do. Killian can’t imagine what’s in the envelope. And he doesn’t think he can wait to have Will send it across the country. “Open it,” he commands, decisive. No use in prolonging the suspension. Will’s his best friend. Whatever David has to say to Killian, Will can be privy to. It’s not like the details of their torrid marriage are a secret to him, anyway.

“You sure?” Will checks, but Killian can already hear the sound of tearing paper. He laughs at Will’s childlike curiosity, but supposes he’s no better.

“Yeah. I can’t imagine what it’d be, anyw-” Will’s shocked gasp cuts Killian off before he can finish the thought, and Killian’s blood runs cold. He tightens his grip on his phone, straightening from where he’d been slouching against the counter. “What? What’s in it?” He can hear Will’s incredulous sputtering, and his patience evaporates. “Will! What the fuck is it?”

“Papers,” Will yelps, sounding completely shocked. “They’re like, divorce, Killian. They’re divorce papers.”

Killian’s knees buckle slightly, the counter at his back the only thing keeping him off the ground. He almost asks who the papers are for, stupidity brought on by horror. He’s distantly aware he shouldn’t be so floored by this. They’ve been separated for two years. Killian walked out without warning, and he’s made no attempts for reconciliation, nor has David. They certainly don’t act like they’re married. There’s no logical reason they should still be tied together by law.

He still throws up every bit of his meager dinner in the sink behind him. He grimaces when he gets the last of it up, holding his mouth open under the tap and running cold water. He’d dropped his phone on the counter without disconnecting the call, and Will’s tinny voice yells for him repeatedly. Scrubbing his hands over his face, Killian retrieves his phone and presses it to his ear. “I’m here,” he mumbles, halting Will’s cursing. His knees still shake as he slides to the floor, clammy hands gripping his phone.

Divorce. It’s not like he hasn’t considered it. Once. With a very similar reaction to the one he’s having now. Killian knows it’s ridiculous; that divorce is perfectly logical. They don’t live together, or speak to each other, or participate in anything resembling a marriage. But the thought of not being married to David sickens him. Killian had meant forever when he promised forever, and even though he’s the one who left and essentially ruined said promise, he always counted on them resolving this. Someday.

He knows it’s selfish of him to expect David to put his life on hold for someday, but then again, David’s always known that Killian is selfish. He loved him anyway.  _Loves him anyway_ , Killian’s heart insists stubbornly. He may not have spoken to David in two years, but Killian knows without a doubt that David still loves him. No matter how differently divorce papers make it seem.

A thought strikes him suddenly, nearly sending him scrambling for the sink again. What if David wants a divorce because he’s met someone? What if-

“Smee,” Killian rasps out, interrupting Will’s placating speech. He hadn’t been paying attention to that, anyway. “Have you heard anything about David seeing someone else? Has anyone said? Is he…”

“Not that I’ve heard,” Will rushes to assure him, and Killian slouches back against the counter, selfishly relieved. “But,” Will adds, and Killian’s definitely paying attention now. “I mean, could you blame him if he was?”

“Yes!” Killian snaps back, surprised. “I certainly could. He’s  _married_. To your best friend, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Only technically,” Will hedges, reluctant to broach the subject. “You’ve been gone a while, Killian, and you haven’t exactly given him a reason to think you’re coming back. He’s waited longer than I would’ve, even. You’d’ve gotten papers from me the minute you pulled what you did.”

Killian is speechless for a moment, slack-jawed with surprise. Will has never given any indication that he thought Killian was in the wrong in the way he handled things. He’s been nothing if not supportive, keeping Killian in the know about everything happening in South Portland, to the running of Killian’s fishing business (which he’d left in Will’s hands), to goings-on in town, to tidbits of David’s life. He’d even visited once, letting Killian drag him around his new hometown for a few days. He’s never condemned Killian’s actions. Until now, it seems.

“Look, I’m not saying I’m condoning infidelity, but would it even count as cheating when your husband up and left without a word? Two years ago?” Will continues before Killian can think of a rebuttal. “You don’t treat your marriage like a marriage, Killian. Why should David?”

“I haven’t cheated on him!” Killian insists, knowing that’s not what Will means.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” he confirms gently. “I’m saying, you walked out on your marriage. You haven’t given him a chance to fix it, and you haven’t made any attempt to do it yourself. You don’t act like you want to be married, so maybe David’s just trying to make you happy.”

Killian hates that he’s right. By no means is David innocent in the collapse of their marriage, but Killian is the one who destroyed any chance he had of repairing it. Because David would have tried, given the chance. Killian knows him.

“This isn’t what I want,” Killian admits softly, speaking the truth aloud like a balming salve for his shook-up heart. “You know I still love him.”

“Don’t you think  _he_ should know that?” Will asks back, just as soft. “You gotta talk to him, Killian. He’s been waitin’ around for so long. He probably thought this was all that was left to do.”

Killian is done with the conversation in a rush of conscience. He mumbles an agreement, the idea of finally bridging the rift between them too much to handle. Especially today. All he wants is another beer or five and then to sleep for the next day or so. He tells Will as much, thanks him for being the friend he is, and they end the call with Will’s sarcastic wish for a happy anniversary. Asshole.

Killian spends a while longer on the floor, head pressed to drawn-up knees, fingers laced at the back of his neck. It’s oddly reminiscent of the way David had found him, curled up on the bathroom floor, the morning of their wedding. He remembers David’s gentle hands on his shoulders, a contrast to the firm command of his voice when he’d instructed Killian to “ _breathe, just breathe, babe_.” He had, and they’d gotten married, and Killian didn’t think the resulting joy would ever fade. Killian breathes now, harsh and rasping in through his nose, trying to hold it in as long as he can, until his lungs burn and his head swims and his heart aches. Although the heartache is a fairly consistent pain. He’s not sure he can blame it on this.

Killian thought estranged was the ugliest word for what he and David are, but divorced sends a wave of nausea through him every time he thinks it. It lingers, stubbornly, on the edges of his mind until he can’t take it. He needs a distraction and fast. He stands, hands braced on the island to keep himself steady, and walks to the bathroom on weak legs. The mouthwash burns when he rinses his mouth, but anything is better than the acrid taste of bile at the back of his throat. He avoids eye contact with himself in the mirror, washing his face quickly before shutting the lights out. He debates changing, still in the clothes he wore to work and smelling slightly of fish, but ultimately decides against it. The guys at the pub downstairs don’t give a fuck what he looks like. And most of them smell worse than him on even his worst day so.

Killian considers grabbing his phone from where he dropped it on the floor earlier, but he’s feeling a bit resentful towards it for the news it delivered this evening and ultimately decides against it. He slams the door decisively on the way out, eager for the promised torpor the alcohol and mindless sports consumption his favorite bar offers. Usually on a nightly basis, but no one needs to know that.

It’s late by the time he makes his stumbling way back through the door, toes of his boots snagging on the frame, drunken giggles not as carefree as they sound. Killian feels around for the light switch, giving up after what feels like ages but is possibly less than ten seconds. He follows the sudden light from his phone, buzzing against the kitchen tiles to let him know he has a text.

The floor seems as good a place as any to check the message, so Killian sinks gratefully back against the counter. He feels significantly better than he did the last time he sat here, though more nauseous and a stronger headache and possibly more lonely. But not broken. He'd patched that right up, with more rum than he'd care to admit.

The brightness of his phone nearly blinds him in the gloom of the apartment, but he can't remember how to turn it down. The text from Smee will have to go unanswered for now because there's no chance he can focus on the screen for that long. There's a small red number one next to the phone icon as well, and Killian groans, hoping it isn't another of his ramshackle crew calling off. He battles the screaming of his retinas for just long enough to bring up the voicemail, not even bothering to note who it's from. He drops the phone in his lap as the message filters out of the tiny speaker, hands pressed over his eyes to gain respite from the light. They fall away in shock when David's voice permeates the room, soft and stuttering.

Killian wants to brain himself on the counter. How could he leave his phone at home? How could he miss this call, this chance to talk to David? If Smee’s not-so-subtle implications and his own self-doubt hadn't been enough, that choice to leave the phone on the floor confirms that Killian is the stupidest man alive.

David’s talking through Killian's crisis of character, speech obviously impeded by drink. He's so blatantly, completely drunk, and Killian’s heart hurts. It's their anniversary. David shouldn't be drunk on their anniversary. Well, no, he  _should_ be, but not on heartache and undoubtedly cheap booze. He should be drunk on a fancy dinner and expensive champagne and the kisses Killian couldn't help but steal across the table all night. He should be drunk like their first anniversary, when they'd spent three days in a hotel and only got out of bed to open the door for room service. He should be drunk and happy, smiling that smile that crinkles his eyes nearly shut. Killian aches, physically aches, to see it.

Killian listens for a while, David’s words running the gamut from hurt to angry to agonizingly forlorn, and the guilt he’s been running from for two years threatens to swallow him whole. David wants him there, misses the sound of his name on Killian’s lips, hates him for leaving, would give anything to have him back, thinks the only thing Killian wants is to be free. In the moment, the only thing Killian wants is to take it all back. To make it all right.

And then David says he loves him, and Killian doesn’t think he can go one more second without seeing him, never mind that he’s already gone two years.

Once he makes the decision to go back to Maine, Killian finds that everything just sort of falls into place. There’s a cheap spot on a one-way flight, which he figures he’ll deal with the returning one when the time comes. He’s self-employed, thankfully, and can take as much time off as he can afford. Will offers to put him up for as long as he needs. It takes less than an hour in all, from the time he makes up his mind to go to the time he’s entering the security code from the back of his credit card on the airline’s website. Fate, he’d call it. Coincidence, David’s more cynical voice corrects him.

The day of his trip is a different story altogether. Killian oversleeps, nearly misses his flight, leaves his carry-on in D.C.’s airport during his layover, and somehow manages to thoroughly piss off the woman in the seat beside him just because he refuses to switch his window seat for the aisle, causing her to “accidentally” spill her Diet Coke in his lap. He arrives in Maine for the first time in two years with damp trousers, damper spirits, and a tension headache pounding behind his temples. Will isn’t there to meet him at baggage claim like he’d promised, and he doesn’t answer his phone when Killian calls. Repeatedly. So he’s forced to take a cab, trying not to think about how much of his limited funds the trip is going to cost him. When the driver asks for an address, Killian pauses, Will’s street name poised on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t want to go to Will’s. He’s back in Portland after years away and still his only urge is to get as close  to David as quickly as he can. His heart races at the thought of seeing him again after so long, of showing up at their house unannounced, just to see the look on David’s face, even while the rational side of him tries to argue the insanity of such a stunt.

“249 Evans Street,” Killian hears himself say, the sound of the familiar address like a fondly remembered song from youth. He almost expects the cab driver to recognize the significance of the address, but he merely grunts an acknowledgement before checking his mirrors and pulling away from the curb. Killian settles back, hands twisting nervously in his lap. It’s only about a 15 minute ride from the jetport to their house, but traffic is always so unpredictable this close to Christmas. The terminal had been a nightmare, but Killian had hardly noticed. Even now, the scenery speeds by without his attention, too busy debating the wisdom of his choice. He’s staying with Will, it’s all set up. David has no idea he’s coming. He might not even be home to receive him. He’s probably working, like always. Killian absently fingers the keys in his pocket, knowing one of the smaller silver ones unlocks the front door of their cape cod-style house. If David hasn’t changed the locks, that is. Killian knows he hasn’t.

Rain lashes suddenly against the window, pulling Killian out of his head. He squints out the windshield, unsurprised but displeased with the less than auspicious greeting he’s receiving, at least weather-wise. He’d hoped for sun and a balmy breeze, an elemental confirmation of the rightness of his being there. But this Portland is much like the one he just left, and the second week of December is no place for pleasant weather. Killian considers commenting on the clime, figuring he should at least make an attempt at polite chitchat with his driver, but then they turn onto Broadway, and Killian can’t say anything. They’re two miles out now, and Killian’s chest is tight. His head swims, which could be attributed to the tightness in his chest. He feels like he’ll never take a proper breath again. A choked sort of noise escapes between his clenched teeth, and the cabbie casts him a dubious look in the rearview mirror.

“You all right there, buddy?” he asks, though Killian can tell he’s less concerned for Killian’s health than he is the integrity of what looks like freshly reupholstered seats should Killian’s pained noises manifest into physical illness. Killian waves him away, turning to press his forehead to the cool glass of his window. This was a mistake. He should tell the guy to turn around, head east to Will’s house. Or back to the airport, where Killian could catch a flight to anywhere that’s not here. Somewhere David’s hurt eyes and poorly controlled temper doesn’t await him. Somewhere without memories or hurt or regret. Somewhere other than-

“Here,” the driver grunts, his preferred vocalization, braking alongside the curb directly across the street from the small white house where Killian’s dreams were simultaneously realized and dashed. It looks the same and completely different all at once, shutters a neat black instead of the friendly blue he remembers. The grass needs trimmed, as always, noticeably shaggier than the neighbors at either side. Lawn maintenance was never his or David’s strong suit, much to Mr. Knight’s chagrin. He’d made more than one incensed call to the homeowner’s association regarding their unkempt lawn. David had never cared, and apparently still didn’t. “It’s my damn house,” he’d huff whenever the letter containing a gentle reminder about the level of care expected in their small neighborhood arrived. “They can lecture me about upkeep when they’re making the mortgage payments.” Killian was usually sympathetic to his reasoning, though he’d occasionally point out that maybe, just maybe, if David spent a little less time at work, he’d be more motivated to keep the yard looking nice. That opinion always cost him a fight. He remembers one in particular that resulted in standoff that had the lawn going nearly a month unmown, right in the dead of summer. The letters they’d gotten over that had been markedly less polite.

It’s nowhere near that bad now, just slightly overgrown, like David skipped the last mow of the year. The bushes framing the porch are immaculate, however, trimmed and shaped perfectly, but Killian still frowns as he looks at them. If his calendar is correct, today is December 14th, far and beyond the date David usually has the Christmas lights up. The bushes are his favorite to decorate, and he typically spent a couple hours weaving strands of lights in intricate patterns around the branches. Come hell, high water, or double shifts, the lights were always on by the Friday after Thanksgiving and never a day later. Killian feels their absence like a weight on his already over-burdened heart. He can only imagine why David would elect to leave the house dark this year.

He must have been sitting there longer than he realized, just taking in the sight of his perfect little house, because the driver clears his throat impatiently. Killian fumbles for his wallet, almost afraid to check the number on the meter. He hands over almost half the cash he has on him, hoping David hasn’t given up the habit of dropping spare ones and fives in the jar his mother had insisted was for sugar when she’d given it to them as a wedding present. Killian might need to borrow a few bills.

It’s still raining when the cab pulls away, leaving Killian and his battered luggage to shiver on the sidewalk, back to staring at the house across the street. David’s truck isn’t parked out front, and unless he’d begun parking in the alley out back, Killian is almost certain he isn’t home. His key burns a hole in his pocket, begging to let him in. To walk into the only place he’s ever really called home, but Killian is reluctant to invade David’s space without him there. Because it is David’s space now, only David’s. Killian gave up a lot when he walked away, but the hardest thing might have been the sense of belonging he’d craved his entire life and finally found. Here, in the house, but more importantly with the man he’d bought it with.

The tempo of the rain increases from a steady drizzle to something more akin to a pour, which makes Killian’s mind up for him. He crosses the street in a rush, suitcase clattering along on battered wheels in his wake. He makes it up the steps and under the cover of the porch without incident, but pauses again when he wraps a hand around the screen door handle. There’s a chill in his spine that has nothing to do with the weather, the ghost of the hundreds of times he stood here before and went in without hesitation, sure of the welcome he’d be given on the other side. A car splashes by noisily, slowing down to turn into a driveway down the street. Killian is reminded he’s not alone, that there could be countless people privy to his struggle, and the thought of a confrontation with one of the neighbors is what finally propels him inside.

His key fits the lock without resistance, turning over smoothly and granting him access to the warmth of their, no,  _David’s_ home. As he steps over the threshold, Killian is assaulted with sensory memories. The hall light has the same dull glow as ever, barely illuminating the entrance on such a gloomy day. He can smell the assured mound of oranges David keeps on the counter, along with the faint hint of the cologne Killian bought him for his birthday, three years ago. David only wears it on special occasions, and Killian’s gut twists at the thought of what event David deemed worthy of the expensive fragrance. For them, it was ever only the rare and much coveted date nights they managed to take once a month or so. Killian steps farther into the room, suitcase bumping over the doorframe as he goes. He kicks aside several pair of David’s shoes to clear a path to the kitchen, telling himself he has no reason to be annoyed by the mess. He doesn’t live there anymore. David can do as he pleases.

Killian resists the urge to turn toward the bedroom, sparing a glance at the closed door. David shuts every door he goes through behind him, a residual habit learned from one too many horror films as a child, so Killian can’t see in. He assumes it to be as disheveled as the rest of the house appears to be, David never having had a penchant for housework. Killian leaves his suitcase in the little alcove off the kitchen, striding across unwaxed wood floors to the double doors that open on to the small backyard. There are leaves scattered across the porch, and the ornamental grass at the bottom of the stairs is taller than he remembers, but everything else looks the same. Same birdbath they’d found at a flea market in Falmouth, same enormous smoke bush that obscures half of the shed. Killian would be tempted to venture out there if it weren’t for the rain. David has yet to store the patio furniture for the winter, and Killian’s favorite wrought-iron chair beckons to him. The aching familiarity of it all is unbearable. It’s like the whole house is in stasis, holding its breath, waiting for something.  _Or someone,_  his brain insists stubbornly.

Killian wanders back into the living room, pretending to ignore the heartbreaking number of empty liquor bottles lining the sink as he passes the kitchen. He flashes back to the less than coherent voicemail David left the night of their anniversary. He never was good at handling emotion without some kind of liquid courage. His favored poison seems to be whiskey these days, though back when Killian was living here, he would have made a valiant effort to stick to rum. He always made a valiant effort at anything he thought would make Killian happy.

Killian runs a hand down his face, blowing out a weary breath. His eyes itch tellingly, though whether it’s from exhaustion or emotion, he can’t be sure. He settles horizontally on the couch, legs over the side out of habit, though he knows he’s the only one who ever cared about things like shoes on the couch. David was never worried about the “small stuff”, as he called it. Which always led to an argument about preserving the condition of their possessions. What didn’t lead to an argument with them, really? Killian’s too drained to ponder it further, and he allows his eyes to drift shut rather than try.

It’s dark when he wakes, night-dark rather than just rainy-day dark. He wonders what roused him until he hears the slam of a car door, followed by footsteps on the driveway. He’s barely managed to scramble into a seated position by the time David’s key turns in the lock. He’d obviously rushed, which means it’s probably still raining, but all Killian can think is that he’d never locked the door back, and David is about to realize that, which will tip him off that someone is in the house. Which, he realizes belatedly, is a ridiculous worry, as David will know there’s someone here the minute he steps inside because Killian is sat on the couch, in full view of the entry. He’s nervous, possibly more nervous than he’s ever been in his life, and that includes his wedding day. He hears the rasp of a key being withdrawn, the hesitant way David turns the knob. A swallow gets caught halfway down, and Killian nearly chokes, clammy palms coming up to cover his mouth.

Killian isn’t sure what he expected when the door finally swung open to reveal the husband he hasn’t seen or spoken to in two years. A gasp, maybe, or a dramatic swell of orchestral music; a shout or a scream or a cry. Anything, really, a reaction of any kind. What he gets, instead, is a brief pause, the flicker of a glance over his body, the tightening of a jaw. His presence is nothing at all like the bombshell he expected it to be.

They stare at each other for a few moments, completely silent, and Killian takes the time to categorize the changes he notices, just like he did with the house. David’s hair is longer, undoubtedly a product of neglect without Killian there to badger him to keep appointments with the barber, or to take the shearers to David’s head himself. The outfit is the same, SPFD tshirt over tactical pants, heavy boots unlaced, worn leather jacket pulled tight across shoulders. Killian was right in guessing he was at work and, as much as it irks him, he finds himself just as attracted to David in his uniform as he ever was. He’s attracted to David in any form, really. The years have left one thing unchanged, at least; his husband is still the most gorgeous man Killian has ever laid eyes on. Even now, with his carefully deadened expression and unfriendly posture, David commands every bit of Killian’s attention. He has the sudden desire to literally crawl across the hard floor to David’s feet and press his face to his stomach, arms twined tightly around David’s slim waist. Killian’s shifted to the edge of the couch without realizing it, but David’s voice brings him back to himself.

“Killian.” The word falls flat in the space between them, no inflection or intonation to help carry it. David’s voice is as hard as his eyes, as hard as the muscles that bunch under his jacket as he crosses his arms. He’s moved far enough into the house that the door swings shut behind him, cutting off the cold breeze that had been cutting through. The room doesn’t get any warmer in its absence.

Killian fights to swallow again, knowing he won’t be able to force words past his paper dry throat. He wants to return David’s greeting, if you can call it that, but David continues before he can.

“What the hell are you doing here, Kil?” There’s a hint of something in the nickname, but whether it’s contempt or affection, Killian can’t tell. Everything about David’s aura insists it’s the former, but Killian’s heart can’t deny that he hopes it’s the latter. The reality of his return can’t be ignored, though. The thinness of David’s lips suggests he knows the answer to that question without having to ask it, but he waits for one regardless. Killian takes a deep, ragged breath, and speaks to his husband for the first time in what feels like a lifetime.

“I’m here for a divorce.”

 

\--x--

 

David knows he’s been silent far too long, but it feels sadistically satisfying to watch Killian shift uncomfortably on the couch, eyes flicking between David’s impassive face and his own feet. David knows him, knows all of his tells, knows he’s aching to break the silence but also needs to get David’s reaction. Well, he left David to stew in his misery for two years. He can sit there a minute longer.

David uses the time between words to stare blatantly at his husband, looking for changes and finding a strange relief in his sameness. David had always insisted that Killian should never change a thing, from his tousled hair to his too-tight jeans, and it seems he’d taken that advice to heart. He’s achingly familiar, so much so that this could be a scene from two years prior, David coming in late and finding Killian waiting, anxious and a little angry. Always poised for a fight, though David feels more like the aggressor this time, a contrast to their usual dynamic. Not to say David wasn’t prone to outbursts of his own. He just rarely directed them toward Killian. David cringes internally when he remembers the last time he really lost it, coincidentally on the same day Killian left.

_“_ _Just pick up,” David growls, listening as Killian’s phone rings through to voicemail for the third time in a row. He jams his thumb to the disconnect button, frustration winning the war against contrition. He can only feel so bad. It's not like he's choosing to be here instead of home. He’s been here for almost a full day already, Christmas having lapsed into Boxing Day. He dials again, steadfastly ignoring the voice in his head, the one that sounds suspiciously like his husband, the one that tells him he chose this job. That he could quit anytime._

_And it's not like he hasn't thought about it. Every time he has to leave Killian, alone in their warm bed or at some bar with friends or on Christmas fucking morning, David wonders if it's worth it. But inevitably, there's a case on the very next shift that reminds him exactly how worth it his job is. If only he could convince Killian. It might be easier if he didn’t keep rushing off in the middle of things like unwrapping Christmas presents._

_When he's met with Killian’s voicemail for the fourth time, David leaves a quick message, apologizing once more and instructing his husband to ‘just fucking call me, okay? I miss you. You know I wouldn’t be here if there’d been anyone else to cover Doug. I gotta radio back in, but I’m going to leave my phone on. Call me. I love you.’_

_David’s barely ended the call before the next shift, the only one David is supposed to be on, comes rambling into the break room. Wilson is among them, to David’s surprise, laughing at some joke one of the others must've told. David’s fingers tighten convulsively on his phone, and he keeps his eyes on the table, anger simmering hotly through his veins. Fucking Wilson. He's not even supposed to be here this morning. He's supposed to be heading home, David and the rest of the guys his relief from his Christmas day shift._

_Seemingly unable to sense the mood of the room, Wilson comes to stand at David’s side, clapping him on the shoulder amiably. “I heard you're the one who filled in for me yesterday,” he says pleasantly, pulling out the chair next to David at the table. He flops down gracelessly, flashing David a sheepish smile. “Gotta tell you, I appreciate it. Hated to call in, obviously, but my brother surprised us all by coming in from Colorado, and I hardly ever get to see him. So, thanks again. It was great being able to hang out with him for awhile.”_

_Bite your tongue, bite your tongue, David reminds himself, eyes downcast, tick in his jaw undoubtedly obvious._

_David can hear his inner voice sigh in defeat the second he opens his mouth._

_"Oh yeah? I sure hope so,” he replies, casual as you please. “I mean it, I really hope it was worth it, seeing your brother.” Wilson’s easy smile dims a little at David’s tone, and David catches the other guys giving each other wary looks in his periphery. He ignores them all. “Like, I hope it was the greatest reunion so far this century. I hope there were tears. Because I left a pretty devastated husband at home to cover for your sorry ass.”_

_Wilson laughs again, but it’s forced this time. His cheeks have gone pink, like he’s embarrassed, which gives David a sick rush of satisfaction. “Oh come on, David, Killian’s a good guy. I’m sure he understands. Hazards of the job and all that.”_

_David nods agreeably, all while fighting the urge to punch Doug in his red face. “Yeah, he’s great. And he probably would understand, if I hadn’t been here last Christmas. And if I hadn’t missed his birthday this year. And Thanksgiving. And our anniversary. And if I hadn’t promised him, hadn’t sworn up and down that I absolutely, for sure, would never miss this Christmas as well. And maybe,” David’s voice grows louder as Doug tries to interrupt, sounding apologetic, “maybe he’d be okay if it was New Year’s or Easter or literally any other day besides Christmas.”_

_David’s coworkers are all shifting uncomfortably, avoiding his eye, but he plows on. “Did you know we very nearly got married on Christmas? We planned it all out, booked the minister and everything, before Killian decided he didn’t really want to share our anniversary with the world. So yeah, Doug, he is a good guy. And normally, he would understand. But right now? Right now, he’s ignoring my phone calls, refusing to text me back, and probably planning on changing the lock on our front door. So I’m really, really glad you got to see your estranged brother yesterday. And I’m really glad I was here to cover for you, even if I broke my husband’s heart in the process.” David ends his tirade with a shout, just in time for their chief to walk in. His eyes sweep the room, taking in David, half-risen from his chair, Doug, cowering low in his, and the rest of the crew, studiously looking anywhere but the two men at the table._

_“Everything okay in here?” he asks, though it sounds less like a question and more like a demand. Everything had better be okay, or someone was going to get it. David tries to take a steadying breath, ready to answer in the affirmative. Wilson beats him to it._

_“Everything’s fine, sir. Nolan here’s just got his panties in a twist over being called in to cover me yesterday. The missus isn’t too happy with him, and he’s taking it out on us.” Wilson winks at the crew, like it’s a grand joke, and David decks him. He knows he’ll be suspended before Doug even hits the floor._

David’s had several other meltdowns in the months since the Wilson incident, especially once he’d accepted that Killian wasn’t just taking some time to cool off, that he’d really left, but they’d been mostly verbal. And directed at Robin, his poor, patient partner. There were a couple holes in the drywall from when his ire couldn’t be quenched by anything other than physical violence, but for the most part, David’s reached a sort of zen about the whole thing.

Until Killian just showed up, unexpected and not entirely welcome. David knows he knows about the divorce proceedings, Will having called to fill David in almost as soon as he’d told Killian. He knows that Killian had gotten his mortifying message too, from something Will had said. He thought he’d been clear that there was no need for Killian to come back, and yet here he sat, gorgeous and infuriating as ever, perched on the edge of that goddamn couch.

And it’s still eerily quiet in the room, the sound of the heat kicking on the only thing to be heard. David doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say. Killian said he’s here for the divorce, but what kind of response does that elicit?  _Oh good, me too_? or  _Sure, you’ll come from the divorce, but you wouldn’t stay for the marriage_. Everything sounds too harsh, or not harsh enough, too telling or too cold. And the longer David looks at Killian, perfect teeth set firmly in his plush lower lip, fine-boned hands clasped between legs encased in sinfully tight pants, the less he feels like talking at all. Killian is far and away the most beautiful person David’s ever set eyes on, even with sleep-flat hair and fatigue lines etched near his mouth. Not to mention the fact that David hasn’t been laid since the last time Killian was in town. It all adds up to a spike of heat, low in his gut, which could be fury or fervor, but either way, it propels him forward without thought.

Killian’s eyes widen as David stalks closer, legs falling open in unconscious invitation. “Dave, what,” he begins, unsteadily, but David doesn’t give him a chance to finish before he’s pulling him up by the loose collar of his henley, probably stretching it beyond salvation. David doesn’t care, heedless of anything but getting Killian close, closer than they’ve been in years. He doesn’t stop to consider the ramifications, tamps down that damned insistent voice that warns him every time he’s on the verge of making a huge mistake. He just tilts his head, angling for a kiss before Killian can get back the breath David yanked from him, but he stops just short, eyes intent on Killian’s own.

They stare at each other for impossibly long moments, sharing air and body heat, the taste of one another near enough to be maddening. Then Killian sighs out a shaky breath, wetting his lips with just the tip of his tongue, and that’s all the permission David needs. He follows Killian’s tongue’s retreat with his own, pressing beyond his slightly parted lips to the source of his flavor. Killian whines, low and surprised, and David bites him in reprimand.

The kiss is punishingly harsh, every negative emotion and pent-up frustration on David’s part being poured in, but Killian submits to it like it’s all he’s ever wanted. David’s hands find his hair, none too gently, but Killian tips his head back before David can pull it. His arms are around David’s waist, crushing him impossibly closer, quiet moans and quick pants of breath escaping him whenever David pulls back minutely. David can taste the coppery tang of blood on his tongue after a particularly vicious bite to Killian’s lower lip, and he almost stops to ask if he’s okay, but Killian just presses into him harder, shoulders shuddering. Like he craves the roughness, like he wants David to wreck him as thoroughly as possible. And David, for all that he pounced on him the moment Killian was back in his life, is still pissed as hell. If Killian is offering him the opportunity to take it out on him, David isn’t going to object.

He leaves Killian’s mouth for the briefest of time, tearing his damaged shirt over his head. His arms get stuck in the cuffs of the sleeves, and David leaves them, too impatient to get back to their bruising kiss. Killian struggles to free himself and undress David at the same time, hands fumbling ineffectually at the hem of David’s own shirt. Frustrated by his distraction, David shoves him back suddenly, lets him stand there, hands bound and short of breath.

“Get everything off,” David commands, trying to keep any trace of affection from his hoarse voice. His own stripping is perfunctory, no hint of a tease or any artifice. He’s thankful for his unlaced boots as he steps out of them, pants pooling over top of them as he wriggles out of the too-small t-shirt he’d stolen from the station. He makes an irritable sound when he emerges from the folds to find Killian exactly as he left him, still and watchful and fully clothed, save for his torso. “Now, Kil, come on.”

Killian swallows visibly as he resumes undressing, eyes fixed on David’s naked form. “You weren’t--uh, you didn’t have any underwear on, did you?” he asks sheepishly, almost like he’s afraid to speak, lest David scold him again. He finally drops the sweater to the ground at the same time his hands reach for his flies, and David doesn’t miss the way they tremble. He feels strangely powerful at the sight, and a hell of a lot turned on.

“Haven’t had a lot of time for laundry,” David huffs, unsure if Killian is awed or disgusted. He steps back into Killian’s space as his trousers slip down his legs, supporting him by the shoulders as Killian steps out of them. David hunches to accommodate Killian’s slightly shorter form, teeth working against his neck unrelentingly. Killian’s stubble rasps against David’s cheeks, and he knows from experience they’ll still be faintly pink come morning. He can’t wait.

David knows Killian well enough to tell his facial expression by his tone, so he knows he’s frowning when he next speaks. “Working that much, huh? Can’t even- shit David not so hard- can’t even keep your undergarments clean.”

David pulls back to eye the spectacular bruise blooming just under Killian’s jaw, proud of his handiwork and almost sympathetic to the guaranteed sting he left in his wake. He ignores Killian’s baiting about his job, and any attempt at speech is abandoned as well. Killian searches for another kiss, rubbing his nose along David’s, and David gives it to him, slower than before but no less severe. He’d be worried about getting too rough if it weren’t for the obvious evidence of Killian’s arousal against his hip. His mouth goes wet at the feeling, flooding the kiss with an excess of saliva. David cringes at the sloppiness, but Killian makes another desperate sound against his tongue and that does it for David. He hauls Killian’s legs up around his waist, earning himself a startled bite to the lip for his effort. Killian yelps and clutches at his shoulders in surprise, blunt fingernails raking lines across them.

“I hate this, I fucking hate it when you do this, David you  _know_ -”

“Yeah, I know,” David grunts back, taking quick strides along the path to the bedroom. The couch would be more convenient, but after two years of no contact, he’s not gonna fuck his husband on the couch. The journey is easier than he remembers, and whether that’s a testament to his increased fitness, or Killian has lost weight, he’s not sure. He rakes his eyes over the parts of Killian he can see, finding him as hale as ever. Killian is now running appreciative hands up and down his arms, so David chalks the ease of the burden up to more hours spent in the gym and puts the subject from his mind. He shifts Killian gracelessly to one hip so he can get a hand on the bedroom doorknob, flinging it open amidst Killian’s grumbling at the treatment.

He kisses Killian quiet once they’re across the threshold, kicking the door shut behind him. Killian mumbles something about neurosis, but David pays him no attention, intent on bruising his mouth as thoroughly as his neck. David’s steps become significantly less coordinated now that he’s focused on the stroke of Killian’s tongue along his gums, so they sort of stumble their way to the bed. Before David can haul both of them up on the mattress, Killian breaks away from his mouth with a rough inhale.

“Wait, wait, we can’t fall into bed like nothing’s happened!” he insists, eyes wild when they meet David’s, lust nearly obscuring the deep blue of his irises. “Can we? I mean, we have to talk about...everything, Dave, we have to talk about the...the divorce and-”

David drops him to the bed, unceremoniously, and steps away. Killian makes a wounded noise, reaching out with first a hand, then latching a foot around David’s leg when he’s out of arms-reach. He pushes himself up on his elbows, stomach muscles clenched with effort, and looks at David with a mixture of hope and wariness.

“If you want to talk,” David says slowly, arms crossed over his chest, stance wide and combative, measuring his words in opposition to the racing of his heart, “then all we’re gonna do is talk. We’ll go back out there and get dressed and have a fucking chat. But we’re not gonna have a nice conversation and then resume fucking. So, it’s up to you. You wanna talk, or you want me to suck your cock a little?” David despises how tactless that sounds, how it makes this seem like a one night stand instead of the meeting of their bodies for possibly the millionth time, but it’s undeniably effective. Killian flushes from the tips of his ears to the scattering of dark hair at his chest, breath noticeably more labored.

Killian fights back for the second time, malleable to a point but never willing to take anything lying down (for lack of a better term). “I want you to fuck me,” he answers, chin tipped up defiantly, like he expects an argument. And while arguing is kind of their thing, David has no intention of letting it ruin this. He comes down on the bed with one knee between Killian’s spread legs, essentially straddling a thigh as he braces his hands on either side of Killian’s shoulders. Killian’s reaching for him before he’s even settled, hands in his hair, tongue meeting David’s mouth before his lips do.

David indulges him for a minute, letting Killian control the kiss, tilting David’s head and driving himself up into it. Eventually, though, David remembers this is his encounter to direct and wraps a deft hand around Killian’s slick cock to get his attention. It works like a charm as Killian’s head hits the mattress, choking on a moan when David presses his thumb to the slit, spreading wetness to ease the glide of his hand. David hums back, smug at the reaction, returning to the already purpling mark at Killian’s throat. He works Killian’s dick for a while, hips grinding a lazy rhythm against the leg between his own, until the gasps and curses in his ear reach the kind of desperate pitch that David knows to mean Killian’s close. He releases his cock with an affectionate but firm squeeze at the base, sitting back despite Killian’s objections.

“Shut it,” he says, no malice behind the words. Killian glares up at him, and for a moment it’s all so familiar and good and  _right_ that David struggles to take a breath. Killian is stunning beneath him, hair longer than usual and fanned out across the white sheets like an ink stain. David wants to taste every bit of him, but mostly the flushed cock lying against his hip, so he shuffles toward the edge of the bed, only to have Killian catch him under the arms and haul him back up. “Killian,” David warns, reminding him that they’re doing this David’s way. Killian’s scowl only darkens as he presses his hips up into David’s, friction between them eased by his steadily leaking dick. David bites his lip against a groan, but it’s useless. It’s been so long and Killian feels so good, has always felt so good, so it’s only seconds before he’s lost.

“I told you, want you to fuck me,” Killian grits out, fingers threaded in David’s hair to draw him back into their aggressive kiss. David goes, always so fucking easy for his husband, always always-

“No,” David pants, holding Killian down with a hand to his chest. “I mean, not no, but no. I don’t care what you told me, we’re gonna do this my way. So you just lie here,” David reaches for both of Killian’s hands, maneuvering them until they’re stretched above his head, pressing down once to communicate he wants them left there, “and let me do my thing. Got it?”

Killian’s glare is fierce, but he nods once, jerkily, and relaxes back into the sheets. David touches him then, as lavishly as he’s wanted to for-fucking-ever, pinching at nipples and tickling across ribs until Killian is squirming, hands clenching and unclenching in an effort to keep them above his head and out of David’s hair. David suddenly regrets being so insistent about blowing him. He wants nothing more than to sink into Killian’s sublime heat, as soon as possible, never having found anything quite like it.

He decides to keep the rest of the foreplay perfunctory, afraid neither of them will last beyond anything more ambitious, and reaches for the lube in the nightstand drawer even as he draws eye level with Killian’s heavy cock. He takes the tip in his mouth at the same time he slicks up three fingers, relishing Killian’s strangled gasp. He feels Killian’s hands at the nape of his neck immediately, but doesn’t bother to scold him for moving as he sinks deeper. It’s been awhile since he’s done this, and he needs to concentrate on his breathing. David takes Killian’s dick in his free hand, pulling it up away from his hip to improve the angle, and slips one finger in to the first knuckle in the same moment.

“Fuck, yeah,” Killian spits out, tugging sharply at the fine hairs of David’s neck, hips canting toward the finger that breaches him. He’s tight, tighter than David remembers, so much so that David worries he won’t be able to prep him well enough before Killian comes. He eases off his cock slightly, sucking lightly to keep him relaxed but making no move toward getting him to completion.

“Come on, Dave, you know I can take it. Give it to me,” Killian goads, bringing a knee up to spread himself, get David deeper, and David scrapes his teeth along the side of his cock in admonition. He adds a second finger anyway, listening for any sign that he’s hurting Killian, but receives only a pleased groan. “That’s it, babe, c’mon,” Killian pants, scratching at David’s scalp in encouragement. David has done a good job of ignoring his own arousal up until that point, but the combination of Killian’s breathy voice, the tightness around his finger, and the hands in his hair has a rush of want welling up, irrepressible. He gives a single thrust against the edge of the bed to relieve some pressure, working Killian open at a quicker pace.

It’s not long before Killian is cursing again, nonstop, cock down David’s throat and three of David’s fingers stretching him. “Now, now, come on David, not gonna last, need you, asshole,” he babbles, clearly straining not to come, shoving at David’s shoulder in a half-hearted attempt to get him to stop.

“Yeah?” David checks anyway, voice shot and throat sore, unaccustomed to the workout Killian had put it through. His wrist aches too, the angle awkward, and David nearly laughs at how he’d been praising himself for his fitness earlier without realizing how far out of sex-shape he’s fallen. “You’re good?”

“The fuck have I been saying?” Killian bites back, eyes closed and face tipped toward the ceiling. David can’t help but kiss him, overwhelmed with how much he’d fucking  _missed_ this. He knows the only reason he even has this now is because he’d sent Killian those papers, but he’s not going to let the opportunity to finally fuck his husband go to waste. Killian kisses him back serenely, trying to bring himself back from the edge, and David keeps it soft and slow, soothing Killian’s ardor as he eases his fingers out and reaches back into the drawer for a condom.

Killian pulls away to frown at the packet, like he’s not sure what it’s doing there. Truth told, they’ve probably had these the duration of their marriage, but David doesn’t want to leave the warmth of Killian’s body to check the expiration date. He knows he’s clean because he hasn’t been with anyone but Killian in over nine years, so the condom is more of formality or courtesy than anything. Although, David realizes with a flash of jealousy, he has no idea if Killian has been with anyone in their time apart. Judging by the way he’s looking at the condom like it’s something sinful, David doubts it. Still, he can’t quite dampen the sudden possessiveness that takes him over, dipping down to add a matching mark on the opposite side of Killian’s neck.

He slips the condom on while Killian is distracted by his mouth, adding a generous drop of lube to its already slick coating. He trails kisses back up to Killian’s lips as he lines himself up, opening his mouth against the gasp Killian gives when the head of his cock catches at Killian’s entrance. David shushes him, hands gripping his hips punishingly tight as he tilts Killian to the perfect angle. Killian’s legs are around David’s waist, pressing him forward inexorably.

“Ready?” David practically begs, breathless already, and Killian nods furiously. They give matching groans of relief when David finally sinks in. It’s every bit as good as he remembered, hot and tight and smooth, Killian whining and clenching down around him rhythmically. David goes slow, ignoring Killian’s pleas for more until he’s fully seated, resting his forehead against Killian’s and just breathing together for a bit. Finally, Killian gives him an impatient kick to the back of the thigh, and David sits up slightly, vigor returning in a rush. His anger has mostly been smothered by the incredible love he has for Killian, the completely irrepressible kind, but just because it no longer qualifies as a hatefuck doesn’t mean that David needs to take it easy on him. He pulls out in an impossibly slow drag that has Killian moaning wantonly before driving back in at a brutal pace.

“Fuck, Killian, you feel so fucking good, can’t believe how long it’s been,” he swears, blackness prickling at the edges of his vision from how perfect it all is. Killian whines back, uncharacteristically needy as he clutches David to him, imploring him for a kiss. David understands, feels a bit desperate to hold onto this feeling himself, so he goes willingly. He fits one hand behind Killian’s neck to ease the strain of the kiss, the other hand already reaching for Killian’s neglected cock. He never wants to stop touching him, or fucking into him at the harsh but exquisite pace they’ve established.

Killian’s hands are everywhere, like they always are when they have sex in this position. He trails them through David’s hair and scratches down his back. He grips at David’s biceps where they strain to hold himself up on his elbows, finally just wrapping his arms around David’s neck and holding on as each snap of David’s hips push him up the bed.

“You okay, babe?” David asks, absently, so focused on the feeling that it takes him a moment to notice that Killian has quit kissing him back, going tense and silent under him. David pulls back to get a better look at his face and is surprised to see tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. “Killian? What-”

“Gonna come,” Killian chokes out, sounding mortified. “It’s so quick, I’m sorry, I can’t help it.” David kisses him again before he can say anything else, twisting his wrist the way he knows drives Killian crazy, and angling his hips in hopes to catch against that elusive bundle of nerves. He’d been holding back, trying to last until he got Killian there first, but now that he knows Killian is already there, he puts everything he has into fucking his husband into the mattress.

“It’s fine, me too, me too,” he assures Killian breathlessly, thrusts shortening to merely a deep grind when Killian’s gasp lets him know he’s found the perfect angle. “You can come, darlin’, it’s fine, I’m not gonna be mad at you. Come on.” David barely gets the last word out before Killian is arching under him, trapping the hand on his cock against both their stomachs as he gasps out David’s name. David strokes him lightly until Killian shudders, oversensitive, then takes his hand away to wipe against the wrecked sheets.

David braces both hands on the bed, straightening from where he’d been hunched over Killian and tries to pull out, not wanting to overwhelm Killian now that’s he’s come, but Killian holds him fast with the one leg still wrapped around David’s hip. “No, just, come on,” he slurs, turning his head to kiss the inside of David’s elbow, eliciting a shiver from the feeling against sensitive skin. “Stay in, David, come on.”

“Fucking hell,” David groans back, loathe to obey but helpless to do anything else. He goes still and tight as he comes, face buried in the hinge of Killian’s jaw, teeth set in his favorite mark, hips pressed tight against Killian’s own. Killian is murmuring his ear, probably words of encouragement and praise, but David is deaf to everything but the rushing in his ears. He has the presence of mind to pull out and get the condom off and dropped over the side of the bed before he lists sideways, pulling Killian with him until he’s resting against David’s shoulder.

“I need to clean up,” Killian protests sleepily, gesturing weakly to the mess on his stomach. David shakes his head, pulling the pillow out from behind Killian’s back and removing its case. He stretches to dip the corner in the glass of water on the bedside table, taking care not to knock the whole thing in the floor, and settles back down to scrub at Killian’s stomach officiously while he makes a face at David’s choice of washcloth.

“There. Everything’s good as new,” David says around a yawn, dropping the pillowcase in the same way of the condom and praying he doesn’t step on either come morning. He’s already three-quarters asleep when Killian curls up against his side, David’s arm around his shoulders, nosing against David’s collarbone lightly, so he can’t be sure he heard correctly when Killian replies.

“I hope so. I really, really hope so.”

 

\--x--

 

The light is the same. Blinding. Persistent. Inescapable.

Killian groans from beneath the mound of blankets he’s burrowed under, trying to wrangle his faculties enough to demand that David go close the curtains. To which David will reply that the curtains are closed. And Killian will disparage his prowess as an interior designer for picking such useless drapery. And David will remind him that he ran his choice by Killian before purchasing anything and his choice was met with approval. And Killian will argue that he was obviously under the influence of some mind-altering narcotic when he okayed the damn things. And David…

Well. Suffice to say, it's an argument they've had many times. Every morning that both of them were still in bed after sunrise, which was admittedly rare. Killian’s days started pretty early, David’s ended rather late. Their schedules were so entirely opposite that they were lucky to spend two or three nights per week in the same bed at the same time. But it's too early and he's still too pleasantly sore to contemplate all of their marital shortcomings.

Killian reaches for David from beneath his quilt mountain, knowing he shouldn't be surprised when he's met with nothing but sheets on David’s side of the bed. But he is. He sits up, blankets tugged close around his shoulders, glaring at the bedroom door. He listens intently for a moment in case David is simply using the bathroom or making coffee, something essential like that to lessen the sting of waking up alone after a night like last. But the house is silent. Bright but silent, and Killian feels a rush of anger like the one that carried him away from here two years ago.

He's sure David is back at work, gone without a word or warning. Like he always is. After last night, Killian had been so hopeful. So stupidly hopeful that things could be different. He'd come back expecting David to be furious with him, to throw him out or yell himself hoarse. Anything but kiss him, fuck him, sleep with his face pressed between Killian’s shoulder blades. His hopes for another chance had soared comically high after just a few hours back in Portland, but here they lie, crushed against the sun drenched floorboards of his former bedroom. His suitcase sits innocuously by the chair, the perfect metaphor for Killian’s own presence in the room. David had obviously brought it in, like he’d brought Killian in the night before. Welcome, but not belonging. Separate from the intimate places; self-contained, ready to pick up and leave at any moment. Just passing through.

Killian practically leaps out of bed in his ire, not sure if he’s madder at David for abandoning him in what is distinctly no longer his space, or at himself for walking right back in like he had the right. He spots yesterday’s clothes piled neatly on top of the dresser and digs through his pant pocket for his phone. Before he loses either his nerve or his anger, he pulls up David’s contact information. He almost presses call, the desire to yell at David without having to look at him extremely appealing, but knows if David is at work, he won’t pick up anyway. And railing at a voicemail is not nearly as satisfying as a live audience. His thumb hesitates over the home button, prepared to exit David’s info and find a more constructive outlet for his rage (filling David’s deodorant with cream cheese holds a certain allure), but he finds himself pulling up a new text window instead. Killian stands there, stark naked in the middle of his old bedroom, the early light of morning dappling his skin, fingers hovering over the screen of his phone as he debates what to say. He’s still pretty mad, so confrontation is the only logical step. No one ever regrets a text they send in the heat of the moment, after all.

 

Dave  
iMessage  
Today 7:28

 

_glad to see nothing’s changed. i’ll be at wills if you need me_

Killian locks his phone viciously once he presses send, immediately regretting his brashness. He’s sure David was already on the schedule for today, and since Killian hadn’t given him any warning of his impending visit, David wouldn’t have had time to arrange coverage. But just this once, Killian wishes David would forget his whole ‘most reliable paramedic on the east coast’ shtick. While it’s not as solid as the proverbial death in the family or dog ate my homework excuse, your long-lost husband flying in from the other side of the country after a two year absence has to grant some leeway.

Killian showers quick but gets dressed slowly, pulling on the same outfit from yesterday rather than try to extract one from his suitcase, only to repack it as soon as he’s found it. He calls Will and asks him for a ride back to his place, swearing he’ll explain everything once he arrives. Will promises to be there within an hour, and they hang up. In the meantime, Killian strips the sheets off the bed and tosses them in the washing machine. He brushes his teeth with a spare brush, dropping it in the trash once he’s finished. He won’t need it again. He drags his suitcase into the living room, straightens the couch cushions where they’d been squashed by his impromptu nap yesterday. Finally, he just stands in the middle of the living room, phone in his hand and completely out of reasons to linger. And still no response from David.

Killian’s just moved to check the lock on the back door, even though he never opened it and he’s fairly certain David hadn’t either, just needing something to keep him occupied, when his phone buzzes. He nearly drops it in apprehension, no longer sure he wants to know David’s response. He unlocks it anyway, heart beating faster than strictly necessary, given all he’s doing is reading a text.

  
Today 8:13

 

 _What are you talking about?_ _  
_I had to go to work?__

Killian scoffs at David’s perfect capitalization and punctuation, never having been able to convince him that it’s okay to keep it casual in a text. Of course he doesn’t see what the problem is. He never could.

 

 _i figured that out, funnily enough._ _  
i just can’t believe i expected anything different_

 _Killian, I’m at work. I don’t have time_  
_to puzzle out what exactly_  
_you’re pissed about. If it’s the leaving_  
_you in bed thing, I’m sorry I didn’t_  
_tell you I was leaving, but I didn’t_  
_figure you’d appreciate getting_  
_woken up at 5:30._

  _yeah, you’ve always been thoughtful_  
_that way never wanted to disturb_  
_me so you just don’t tell me anything_  
_it’s easier that way right? avoid_  
_the problem you created_

  _Seriously? I’m not gonna work_  
_through nine year's worth of pent-up_  
_bullshit with you over text message._  
_I’ll be home at 3, we’ll talk then._

  _i told you, i’m going to wills_

There’s a long pause in messages after that, and Killian wants to put his head through a wall. He’s working himself up now, anger and resentment for every fucking time David put his job first coming to a head over a few hastily typed words from David’s cell. He considers sending a few more of his own to combat the silence on David’s end, but knows the persistent buzzing will only serve to piss David off more. He’s always hated it when Killian sends a bunch of texts in quick succession, bitching at him to take the time to compose one comprehensive message rather than a string of short ones.

Killian stares at his phone for several minutes, rereading what’s been said and only growing more incensed by David’s ‘who, me?’ attitude. Then the dots appear after his last text, letting him know David’s typing back. They disappear after a moment, and Killian groans in frustration, but they’re back before he can send a thousand impatient questions marks.

 _Fine. I guess since you’re here,_  
_you want to be included in the_  
_divorce proceedings? I have a_  
_meeting with a mediator at 4:30._  
_Asset allocation or some b.s._  
_You’re welcome to come._

His next text is an address, highlighted and underlined for Killian to open in his maps, but all he can focus on is that fucking word. Divorce. So that’s apparently still happening. Killian tries to think of a rejoinder, something snappy and witty, something that proves David’s words, clearly intended to cut him, have missed their target. But all he wants to do is send a dozen middle finger emojis. And maybe a couple crying ones thrown in for good measure. He ends up sending back a “k”, satisfying himself with a word that isn’t a word in petty vindication.

   
40 minutes later find Killian collapsed against the couch, legs stretched out, phone in his hand as he stares at his conversation with David. Why had he been so openly hostile? David had seemed taken aback, which most likely means he would have continued to be amicable, but of course Killian had to go and ruin that. One of them always managed to destroy any good will between them. Killian isn’t sure why he was so incised by David’s absence, or why he’d honestly been hoping last night’s events pointed toward reconciliation. Why does he want to subject himself to the constant turmoil that was their marriage?

Images from the previous night flash, uninvited, behind his drooping eyelids. David, so harsh and aggressive at first, gentling into tender touches and attentive whispers. He’s never been able to stay mad at Killian, no matter how provoked. He’s always tried his damnedest to make Killian happy, actually. But he was also stubborn and hot-headed and immutable. His love for Killian was rivaled only by his dedication to his job, and Killian had never been able to handle competition. So while the love and affection between them was so real and so good, so too was the pettiness and bitterness that came along with rushing headlong into marriage before they really knew each other. So explosive and frantic was their attraction that they’d found themselves married before they even reached their six-month anniversary. David had asked, the perfect contrast of confidence and terror, and Killian had said yes, a lethal mix of hesitation and irrepressible eagerness, and they’d signed the papers and exchanged vows at the courthouse before most of their friends and family even knew they were dating.

But it hadn’t been all bad. In fact, a lot of it had been wonderful. Killian had never been so singularly devoted to another person, and for the first couple years, everything his husband said or did or  _was_ absolutely delighted him. They were 21 with shiny new rings on their fingers, with each other and a small but cozy house to come home to, and their entire future stretched between them in limitless and intertwined possibility. They had only needed each other, only relied on each other, only wanted to spend time with each other.

In retrospect, Killian recognizes this as a flaw, creating the sort of crafted isolation that seemed romantic in the beginning but soon grew cloying and claustrophobic. They’d cut themselves off from any outlets they’d had to vent, and all that frustration had turned inward. Eventually, David’s job had seemed less heroic and dazzling and more like the thing that kept his husband away for days on end, odd hours and holidays and special events. Killian grew tired of what he viewed as David picking work over him. And David had become similarly fed up with Killian’s reaction, days spent sleeping at the dock to avoid being home, staying out with his crew, picking fights over David’s job whenever he was home. And then Killian had left, unwilling to work out a solution. He'd wanted David to put him first, no exceptions, and David hadn't been able to satisfy the need.

Killian sighs, flipping his phone around and around in his palm, wishing Will would hurry the fuck up already. He knows he made the right choice for himself, leaving like that. If he had stayed, he's positive that they'd have destroyed any shred of what was good about their relationship. As crazy as it sounds, Killian’s departure had prevented them from devolving into the nastiness he'd seen in other strained marriages. They couldn't fight and tear each other apart if they never spoke.

He thought last night had proved him right, that they were only able to become so intimate again so soon because they hadn't been given the chance to hate each other. He'd so foolishly thought that the time and space had cleared the air, not to mention the path to reconciliation. Killian laughs out loud at his naïveté. Nothing was reconciled. Nothing was fixed. All they had was their still-explosive chemistry and two years’ (at least on Killian’s part) worth of pent-up sexual frustration. He assumes David, Mr. Do-The-Right-Thing, hasn't spread it around in his absence, but the very idea infuriates Killian to the point that he has to actively not think about it, lest he begin going through David’s belongings in search of an affair that Will already promised him David wasn’t having.

And speaking of Will, where the hell is he? Killian checks his phone for the fifth time in as many minutes, as if it were possible to miss Will’s arrival text with the phone clutched in his hand. He dials Will’s number in a huff, picking at a loose seam in the back of the couch. He remembers, achingly, David bragging about his disrespectful treatment of the couch in Killian’s absence, the sound of David’s deceptively precise speech loud in his ears. David had always tried too hard to prove he wasn't drunk, and that's exactly how Killian could always tell when he was. And he certainly had been, the night he left that message.

Will answers before Killian can follow those thoughts any further, sounding breathless.

“Before you say anything, I gotta tell you I’m not on my way and I won't be for a while. We've got a huge jam in the winch,” Will practically shouts, drowning out Killian’s protest. “I gotta stay here and work on this unless you want us to lose at least a full day’s work.”

Killian pauses his useless tirade, deflated. He definitely doesn't want that. And as much as he admires and respects the crew he'd left in charge of his business, Will is the only one he trusts to actively seek a solution to any problem rather than use it as an excuse for the day off. He sighs again, pinching the bridge of his nose in a gesture he'd blatantly purloined from David.

“No, I get it. You can't send one of the guys to get me? I could help,” he offers insincerely. He knows Will doesn't want him there, doesn't want to disrupt the balance of the crew now that they've finally accepted that no, Killian isn't coming back and yes, they do have to actually listen to what Smee says.

“No,” Will confirms, and Killian smiles at how well he knows him. “I don't need you down here riling them up. Just sit tight and I’ll let you know when I can get there.”

Killian agrees reluctantly, and they end the call with Killian wishing him luck and Will insisting he doesn't need it. Defeated, Killian sags back against the cushions. He knows that Will most likely will be finished before David gets home, hours from now, but he doesn't relish the thought of skulking around like an unwelcome guest in his own home. He supposes he could call a cab, but has no idea where he'd go or what he'd do there, and isn't keen on the thought of venturing out in public just yet. He's bound to run into someone he knows and isn't sure he's quite ready to handle the inevitable interrogation he'll get from everyone he meets.

In the end, he winds up asleep on the couch in a replication of last night, sleep clearly his chosen defense mechanism in coping with his problems. He'd turned the TV on for a bit of white noise, the quiet of the house too conducive to thought. Killian doesn't want to think about anything, least of all the sequence of events that followed his nap yesterday. It's all too easy to lose himself in thoughts of David’s hands and mouth and eyes and forget everything that comes with them, like doubts and insecurities and frustrations. No, sleep is definitely his best option.

The sense of deja vu doesn't end there, as the next time he opens his eyes, Killian hears David’s key in the lock. He doesn't bother to scramble upright this time, just watches blearily as David opens the door, stopping just over the threshold when he spots Killian, in yet another repeat of the previous day.

He's quicker to recover this time, stepping inside and closing the door after just a moment’s hesitation. He averts his eyes as he drops his keys and the mail he'd collected on the table in the entry, shrugging out of his jacket in one smooth motion.

“Thought you were going to Will’s,” David says, casual as anything, not sparing Killian another glance as he moves toward the kitchen.

Killian wants to fling cushions at his retreating back. He settles for scrubbing his hands violently across his face, sitting up as he does so. He raises his voice to answer David, though he knows he doesn't need to in order for it to carry into the kitchen.

“He had drama with some rigging. He’ll collect me once he's sorted it out.”

David wanders back in, peeled orange in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. Killian’s stomach grumbles at the smell, reminding him he hasn't eaten since one very shitty, very distant meal at the airport restaurant during his layover in D.C. yesterday afternoon. It’s loud enough to garner a raised eyebrow from David, and Killian fights a blush. He also tamps down a thrill when David hands him the orange without comment, moving to sit in the chair opposite the couch. David waves off his mumbled thanks, sipping at his tea with his eyes on the floor.

The silence stretches thick between them, rich and pulsing like a tension heartbeat. Killian aches again, faintly, because even when they were livid with each other, they always had something to say. He and David have never had an awkward silence between them in their lives, but sitting here now, every floorboard and picture and piece of furniture in the room holding a different memory of their shared existence, neither of them seems to be able to fill it. Killian watches David decidedly not watching him, fingers sticky with orange, eyes sticky with sleep, and he almost wishes David would yell at him, just to give him an excuse to yell back.

Finally, David clears his throat, and Killian braces himself for a fight in almost a relieved manner.

“Well, there's not really a point to Will coming to get you now,” he says, meeting Killian’s eye long enough to catch his confused look. “I'm leaving for that thing. With the lawyer, Kil,” he sighs when Killian makes another face. “At 4:30. You said you wanted to go, remember?”

The thing. With the lawyer. Division of property or allocation or whatever the hell David called it. One of the final steps in divorce proceedings. That thing.

“Right,” Killian croaks, throat suddenly tight. At least he finished the orange. It'd be embarrassing to admit he wasn't eating because he couldn't seem to swallow past the lump in his throat. “I guess I should call a cab then, huh?”

David looks at him like he's crazy, like that's the last thing he expected him to say. “Don't be dumb,” he says, and Killian’s desire to lob things at him returns full-force. “You can ride with me.” It's his tone that Killian reacts to more than anything, like he finds Killian ridiculous. It's a tone with which Killian is intimately familiar. The tone that facilitates most of their arguments.

“Well, excuse me for assuming you weren't keen on the idea of us doing anything or going anywhere together,” he bites back, drawing his arms around himself in a defiant gesture.

“Oh knock it off with the victim act, Killian, I said I was sorry for ditching you,” David says, rolling his eyes. “There's no need to act like I can't stand your presence or whatever hare-brained notion you've got in your head.”

“Would I be so remiss as to interpret your actions as anything but inhospitable?” Killian returns, voice mockingly sweet. He knows David hates it when he mocks him. That's why he does it.

“For the love of- inhospitable?” David repeats, incredulous. “What, because I didn't wake you up with Eskimo kisses and breakfast in bed? I had to work, and besides, what were you expecting? For things to magically repair themselves overnight, just because we slept together?” David's laugh is bitter and so unlike him that Killian flinches, hating the sound. “Tell me that's not what you were hoping for.”

He makes it sound so inconceivable, so preposterous, that it makes Killian vicious, needing to inflict the same kind of hurt and shame David is trying to convey.

“You're acting like it’s so incredibly naive of me to think that, by jumping me the minute you laid eyes on me, you were more than a bit reconciliatory inclined,” Killian says harshly, reveling in David's flush. “Maybe it would seem less ridiculous to you if I point out that, between the two of us, you're the one who's still wearing his wedding ring.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Killian wants to replace them with his foot. David goes rigid, hands clenching around the mug he's still holding, aforementioned ring caught in the afternoon sun spilling through the window. David's eyes are wide, focused on Killian's own hands, expression disbelieving like he hadn't noticed Killian's ring was gone.

It's not gone, it's in the front zipper of his suitcase, taken off and shoved in hastily at baggage claim because Killian was sure David wouldn't be wearing his, and he didn't want to look like the sentimental fool of a husband that he most certainly was. He should tell David this, but he's still a little too tender from waking up alone to want to undo the damage altogether. He needs to get his digs in, too.

“David,” he gasps out instead, hands raised consolingly. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, babe, I didn't mean that. I just wanted to get back at you, I just said it to hurt you, I didn't mean it.”

David shakes his head, visibly forcing himself to relax. Killian wants to go to him, sit in his lap and press his face to his neck, but he knows he wouldn't be welcomed. He'd probably get a mug of hot tea to the chest for his effort.

“It's fine, I was being a dick,” David says curtly, standing up, neatly removing the temptation of going to him. “Are you ready to go? I need to change real fast.” He disappears into the bedroom as he talks, and Killian is left alone to despair over his thoughtlessness. He’s not sure what makes him think he and David have a shot in hell if his first response to a challenge is a cutting remark, aimed at his husband and only intended to harm. Killian doesn’t want to hurt David, but that seems to be the all he’s capable of doing.

Killian is still sitting on the couch when David reemerges, casual in darkwash jeans and flannel, still looking better than anyone has a right to; better than he should, for Killian’s sanity. He casts Killian an impatient look, moving to pull a heavy coat out of the closet by the front door.

“Ready?” he asks again, never having gotten a response. “Grab your coat, babe, we’re gonna be late.”

They really need to stop using pet names on each other, Killian thinks. How many almost-divorced couples go around calling each other ‘babe’? And yet, that’s the second time in under 10 minutes that the word’s been tossed out, instinctual and habitual, without a second thought. Killian is still marveling at how quickly they fell back into everything, the fighting and the sex and the comfortability, when David makes an impatient sound, shaking the sleeve of the coat back to check his watch. It’s his way of telling Killian to get a fucking move on without having to put it into words. Words always lead to an argument, especially when they’re going somewhere together. David can’t stand to be late, and Killian is less concerned with punctuality. Several times, Killian’s found himself abandoned in the closet, trying out another outfit for whatever event they’re attending. David can only pace in front of the door for so long before he leaves Killian to his own devices. He doesn’t have his own devices this time, though, so he stands from where he’d been rooted to the couch. He retrieves his jacket from the kitchen chair he’d thrown it over, coming to stand by David where he waits. Unsurprisingly, he’s met with a disapproving look.

“It’s freezing today. You’re gonna need something bigger,” David corrects, almost gently. He’s pulling on gloves as he speaks, and Killian catches a glimpse of his wedding ring. There’s a rush of relief, brief but strong, that he hadn’t managed to shame him into removing it.

“This is the only one I brought,” Killian shrugs, reaching past David to open the door, pretending not to delight in the brush of their shoulders. David turns it into much more than a whisper of contact, placing a hand on Killian’s shoulder firmly to halt the motion. Killian meets his eyes, finds them narrowed in displeasure. David brings both hands to Killian’s shoulders then, pushing the jacket down his arms before shimmying out of his own.

“Take this one,” he insists firmly, letting Killian’s coat fall away as he drapes his much heavier one around him. “I think you’re forgetting how miserable a Maine winter is.” There’s a hint of resentment there, but Killian doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t react to the unsubtle barb at all. He fits his arms in the lined sleeves as David turns to pull another coat from the closet, catching a trace of David’s scent in the leather. He feels enveloped, consumed by everything about David. He is an enigma, always; harsh and cutting one minute, concerned and accommodating the next. He sets Killian’s head spinning, but that’s nothing new. Killian isn’t sure his head has stopped spinning from the moment they met.

David comes back, dressed in an almost identical fur-lined leather coat, and Killian can’t help it. He raises on his toes slightly to press a lingering kiss to David’s cheek, overwhelmed, despite all the nastiness between them, by the incredible love he has for his husband and all his infuriating, unpredictable ways. “Thanks,” Killian says, breathy, once he’s pulled back. David’s face is unreadable, eyes caught on the fit of his jacket across Killian’s chest, so it takes Killian by surprise when he leans in, quick as an eyelid’s beat, and fits his mouth to Killian’s.

The kiss is fleeting, light pressure and bare hint of moisture before David steps back, staying Killian with a hand on his chest when he unconsciously tries to follow, and opening the door in one swift movement. “You’re welcome,” he smiles, crinkles by his eyes the very essence of why Killian fell in love with him, and ushers Killian through the door. “And we’re late.”

Killian laughs and shivers at once, instantly grateful David lent him his coat. Maybe the damnably bitter winters are the real reason he left Portland in the first place. Glancing back at David as he locks the door behind them, his cheeks already pinking from the cold, hint of a smile lingering at the corners of his mouth, Killian is reminded of all the reasons he has to bear the cold.

 

\--x--

 

“...60 day waiting period until the final divorce hearing, once the papers have been filed and they’ve established a separation period. Even though the two of you have technically been separated for two years, the divorce wasn’t filed for until just recently.”

The mediator pauses, glancing up from her papers to make sure David and Killian are following along with the procedure she’s laying out. Killian’s head is down, eyes on his tightly laced hands, and David’s eyes are on Killian. He hasn’t been listening to a word being said, but he’s heard it all before. The mediator is simply reiterating what she’d already told him, for Killian’s sake. David would have been happy to never have been familiar with the legalities of the divorce process in the first place.

“So, basically,” she continues slowly, offering David a grim smile when he meets her eyes for a moment, “this meeting serves to settle issues for the period between the initial separation and the actual divorce. Once you’ve reached an agreement, you can file and get a date for the hearing. Make sense?”

David mumbles an affirmation, while Killian just nods wordlessly. He looks so lost, so unhappy, David just wants to reach across the table and take his hand. It's tentative, this peace between them, established in the admittedly ill-timed kiss at the door. It had seemingly soothed Killian's ire over waking up alone, enough so that the ride to the lawyer’s office had been bearable, if a bit quiet. David had hit a drive-thru on the way, unable to forget the rumbling of Killian's stomach from earlier. Killian's grateful smile had made up for any embarrassment David felt over being such an overprotective spouse. Still, David isn’t sure any of that warrants more unnecessary touching. They’re supposed to be separating, not touching.

“So the purpose of this meeting,” their mediator continues, and David will be damned if he can remember her name, “is to discuss the division of assets. The two of you seem reasonably amicable, so it shouldn’t be too much of a problem.”

They certainly were ‘reasonably amicable’ last night, David thinks somewhat wryly. Much more than reasonable, really. He can tell Killian is thinking the same thing, just by the tilt of his mouth. It makes David smile, as incongruous as it is to be smiling in the middle of something like this.

“So, let’s talk about the distribution of assets. I’ve taken a look at the documents regarding your mutual property, but we also need to talk about the assets you’ve acquired in your time apart.”  

Killian flashes David a grin, strained at the edges but sincere. “Have you even acquired any assets, love?” he asks, tone light. David flushes at the teasing, tips of his ears growing hot under Killian’s delighted gaze. He shrugs, eyes on the table to avoid Killian’s knowing smirk and the mediator’s confused look, undoubtedly brought on by the damn petnames neither of them can seem to quit using.

“I got a fish,” David mumbles petulantly, but there’s a smile playing at the edge of his mouth. He’s missed this, this levity. When they’re not fighting, he and Killian delight in each other like no one David’s ever met. They make each other happy when they aren’t making each other miserable. The early years of their marriage had been weighted heavily with the positive, which both of them tend to forget. Moments like these, though, David’s sharply reminded of how good it can be.

Killian is still watching him when David looks up, eyes narrowed in faux concern. “Oh, well, that changes everything,” he says, voice grave but expression mirthful. “I'm going to have to demand partial custody of that fish, you know.”

David shakes his head immediately, clasping his hands in front of him and leaning across the table slightly, pitching his voice to match Killian’s somber tone. “The most I’m willing to give you is visitation.” He raises a hand to quiet Killian’s protest. “ _Supervised_ visitation. I've seen what you do to fish,” he adds, unable to suppress a grin. Killian scoffs, sounding delighted, and leans in too, ready to engage him in banter for awhile. If there's one thing he and Killian are good at, it's arguing in circles over meaningless things. And it used to be like this, light and playful, before they tapped into the growing well of resentment between them.

Before Killian can form a rejoinder, the mediator clears her throat pointedly. David sits back abruptly, startled to remember her presence. It’s always like this, with them. Everything else just fades away when they’re together. David aches, suddenly, with how much he wants that. Forever, really, yet here there are, trying to end it as swiftly as possible.

“Actually, I meant more along the lines of the new boat Killian has in Oregon, or the restaurant you invested in, David.”

David and Killian lock eyes again, surprised, and their outbursts overlap in a cacophony of incredulity.

“You bought another boat?”

“You have a restaurant?”

They answer simultaneously as well, both eager to defend themselves.

“I don’t have a restaurant, I just helped Ruby with her startup!”

“How do you expect me to do my job without a boat? I’m a fisherman!”

It’s quiet for a moment while they stare at each other, but David senses Killian preparing to speak and pipes up before he has the chance.

“I don’t want the boat. Or money from the boat?” he glances at the mediator, unsure what she meant by mentioning it. “He needs it. I don’t.”

Killian smiles dryly, seeming pleased but unsurprised by David’s reaction. He responds in kind, and while David certainly didn’t expect anything different (he knows the kind of man he married), he still feels warm at Killian’s words.

“And I don’t expect any returns on David’s investment. That’s his friend. And his money, if there’s any money involved.”

The mediator looks impressed, shuffling her papers around to move on to the next item. “Okay, sounds good. Neither of you have accumulated anything else of much significance, so let’s talk about the things you amassed while you were together. A pickup truck, a house and furnishings, and David, you were brought in as co-owner of Killian’s fishing business.” She glances up to confirm the list, and David and Killian nod in sync. “So, we have to decide who gets what, or what gets sold and divided, or how you want to proceed from here.”

“David gets the truck,” Killian says immediately, in a tone that brooks no argument. “I never drove it, even when I lived here.”

David wants to protest, on principle, but Killian’s right. He hates that truck. And it’s basically worthless, old and rusty as it is, so there’s hardly any point in trying to sell it and split the profits. Still, David feels compelled to respond in kind.

“Well, that fishing business was Killian’s before I came in the picture. He runs it, he works it. I don’t need the money on the month. So I’m fine with just signing it back over to him.” David’s voice is as firm as Killian’s had been, but Killian protests more than he had.

“Babe, you balanced the books for me for seven years, you deserve-”

David shushes him sternly and Killian quiets, but the set of his jaw is mutinous. David knows what’s coming before he even says it.

“Fine, then you’re keeping the house.”

“We split mortgage payments on it for years, Kil, I can’t just-”

Killian shushes him back, though he makes it sound rather mocking, if a shush can sound mocking. David wants to argue, doesn’t feel right about just taking over the house where they built their life. Killian deserves something to show for the hours of work and thought that he put into making it a home, and David wants to give him it. Well, really he wants Killian to just come back and live in the damn place, but that seems impractical now.

Their mediator seems stunned for a moment, eyebrows furrowed as she watches them watch each other. David almost feels sorry for wasting her time. It’s pretty obvious now they didn’t need intervention, but it’s sometimes hard for him to see through his haze of hurt and resentment to remember that really, all he’s ever wanted is to give Killian everything. Giving something that already belonged to him is duck soup.

“Well,” she says finally, reshuffling her papers for what feels like the millionth time. “That was certainly easier than I’m used to. Now we just need to talk about lesser things like taxes and…”

David tunes back out after that, eyes on the slope of Killian’s mouth, still pulled in an appealing half smile. He’s listening, which is good, one of them should, so David feels justified in letting his mind wander, tracing over details of this impromptu reunion. They haven’t talked about anything yet; not why Killian’s here, not what they’re going to do now, not what happened between them. They’ve had sex, and they’ve had a fight, and if that doesn’t sum up the majority of their relationship, David’s not sure what else would.

It’s the same, all of it, as the day Killian left. It could have been two hours, not years, later when David saw him last night. Their dynamic was exactly the same. They’d always moved effortlessly from loving to fighting, with no discernible moment of transition. That’s why Killian’s walkout had come as such a surprise. David had spent months trying to pinpoint the exact fight that had been the turning point for him, but none had seemed worse than another. It was the aggregation of it all, David knows now, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Their fights had always circled back around to peace. David didn’t see what the big deal was.

“Dave?” Killian says, in that thin tone that lets David know this isn’t the first time he’s called his name. David drags his eyes away from where they’d been fixed on the jut of Killian’s collarbone, visible from the loose collar of the shirt David recognizes as the one he’d been wearing last night. The one David had stretched out of shape, he remembers with a rush of something he wouldn’t exactly call contrition.

Killian and the mediator are both watching him, one with slightly more irritation than the other, but David can see the fondness behind Killian’s stern look.

“What?” he asks, intelligently. Killian rolls his eyes, promptly a faint grin from David.

“Was there anything else you wanted to go over today?” their mediator asks, patient as can be. She’s the consummate professional, this one. David feels bad that he can’t even remember her name. Or take his eyes off his husband long enough to give her a proper answer.

Killian is watching him with equally rapt attention, bottom lip held captive between white teeth. David wants to bite him himself, but he’s pretty sure that type of behavior is inappropriate in a divorce lawyer’s office. Well, maybe not the behavior, per say, but the intention behind it.

“I think we’re good, thank you for everything,” Killian answers for him, when it becomes obvious David isn’t going to do it himself. He does manage a nod of agreement, though, shaking hands politely before leaving the woman’s office. He barely resists placing a guiding hand at the small of Killian’s back, settling for keeping pace with him, shoulders brushing on occasion, until they reach the truck. David pulls the door open for him, like he always has, and Killian clambers in with an absent smile.

“Lost you for a minute back there,” Killian ventures as David pulls away from the office building, striving for casual, but David hears the question in his voice.

Understatement. But David agrees, offering an apology. “Yeah, sorry. I’d just heard it before, y’know.”

Killian nods, gaze focused on some point beyond the windshield. There’s a tension between them again, but David doesn’t recognize it as particularly bad. It feels...tremulous. Unsettled but not unpleasant. It’s like the moment is holding its breath, as eager as they are to see where this thing is headed.

They’re quiet for a few minutes more, Killian only breaking the silence once they’re halfway home. Or back to the house. Not necessarily home. Not for both of them.

“I think that went well. For, you know, what it was.” He sounds nervous, and David just wants to soothe him. “All things considered, and all. It was...not terrible. You hear horror stories about this stuff, you know, and I was expecting...but it wasn’t bad, right? Did you think-”

Killian interrupts his own rambling, glancing down in surprise when David stretches a hand across the center console, palm up in invitation. It’s an old habit of David’s, offering Killian his hand when his husband’s feeling stressed or uncertain. Killian knows this, knows all of David’s moves, and David steals a look at him to see his throat bob on a swallow, eyes suspiciously wet. David wiggles the fingers of his outstretched hand a bit, and Killian gives a watery laugh before he takes it, lacing their fingers and pulling until their joined hands rest on his knee. David shifts his grip on the steering wheel, not wanting to have to take his hand back for any reason. Maybe ever. He squeezes Killian’s fingers tightly before speaking.

“It went good,” he confirms, reveling in the feeling of Killian’s slightly clammy palm against his own. They’ve held hands more times than David could ever hope to count, but this time feels more like the first, when paramedic-in-training David had clutched a wet, trembling Killian’s hand tightly and assured him, despite the water in his lungs and the blood pouring from the gash above his eye, that he was not going to die.

David’s eyes flit automatically over the faint scar that wound left behind, suppressing the typical shudder he feels every time he remembers their less than conventional meeting. David had been in his first month of fieldwork when his squad had received a call about a man, early-to-mid 20’s, knocked overboard of a fishing vessel by a broken boom. Killian’s crew had managed to pull him out of the water by the time David and his superior arrived, but the blue pallor of his skin meant he wasn’t in the clear yet. David remembers being horrified when he found himself thinking that Killian looked gorgeous, even with blue skin. Then he’d dropped to his knees to perform his first CPR on something other than a training dummy. After coughing up a disturbing amount of water, Killian had flailed around for a moment, only quieting when David had grabbed hold of one of his frantically waving hands.

_“You’re okay, you’re fine, I’ve got you,” David promised the man whose hand he currently held captive, trying not to stare too hard into his brilliant eyes, or think about the softness of the lips he’d pressed his own to just moments before. It was all so unprofessional David thought he might die of embarrassment, two weeks on the job and already accosting patients. He panicked momentarily, trying to drop the man’s (boy’s? he looked so young, not unlike David himself) hand, but he clung on, pulling David’s hand to his heaving chest._

_“You’re...a little...forward, ain’t you?” he gasped between ragged breaths, and David thought his addled brain was playing tricks on him when the man offered a wink along with a weak smile. “Kissing me and...holding my hand...when I don’t even know...your name.”_

_David made an incredulous noise while the man’s crew tittered around them. “It wasn’t a kiss!” David insisted shrilly, taking care to lower his voice on the word ‘kiss’. His boss would kill him if she heard. Thankfully, she was back at squad retrieving blankets and an oxygen mask, now that she knew David had the situation under control. Still, David kept his voice down. He didn't need half a dozen fisherman listening in on this nonsense, either. “It was CPR, and it saved your damn life. So. You know. You're welcome.”_

_David tried once more to reclaim his hand but didn't want to struggle too hard with an admittedly very injured patient. Though, judging by the size of the man’s grin, he wasn't hurting too bad._

_“Well, shit,” he said, still slower than normal speech, but without all the panting between words. “I was going to demand dinner, or at least a drink to make up for your impudence, but now I feel like I owe you one. I’m Killian, by the way. And what can I call you? Prince Charming, man with the magic kiss?”_

They'd settled on going through with both scenarios once Killian had been warmed and stitched up, and they fell fast, and fell hard, and were married less than six months later.

And now, over nine years later, David feels the same way he had on the pier the day they'd met. Apprehensive, a little nervous, a lot hopeful. Especially with the way Killian is smiling at him, faded line of the long-healed gash by his eye the only indication that any time has passed.

Without letting go of David's hand, like he's always been reluctant to do, Killian reaches over to switch on the radio. David had left it tuned to the 24/7 Christmas station the last time he'd driven, so the cheerful sounds of the season pour from the speakers, lightening the mood instantly. David despises couples who describe their interests as mutual ( _we love skiing, we go to the theatre, we only drink red wine_ ), but David will use the ‘we’ word liberally when it comes to anything Christmas. And he and Killian love Christmas music.

Until the opening strains of ‘Santa Baby’ come through, and Killian turns to him with the widest smile he's worn since he's been back. Then David hates Christmas music. He hates it so much that he tries to take his hand back, if only to change the station as quickly as possible. Killian is having none of it, taking David's hand in both of his own and holding them between his knees, talking delightedly over David's protests.

“Oh, Dave, remember that time? You know the one,” he trills, without pausing to give David the chance to tell him yes, he's knows exactly which one, and will turn the truck into oncoming traffic if Killian says another word about it. “Remember, when we went to karaoke night at the bar with my crew? How old were we? 22?” David groans loudly when Killian squeezes his hand, but he's secretly thrilled at the excitement in Killian's voice, the fond look of nostalgia on his face. He's so fucking beautiful, has always been so fucking beautiful, and David loves him.

“And you drank three Long Island iced teas because you'd never had one and you said anything with the word tea in it couldn't be that strong because tea is just weakly flavored water? And you,” Killian can barely get through the memory for his laughter, eyes bright and happy. David is shaking his head, trying to fight his own smile. “And you were so shitfaced that you stumbled up on stage and interrupted someone's performance to insist on this song? And you sang the whole thing to me, sitting in my lap on that barstool?”

“And your crew has called me Madonna ever since?” David quips back, causing Killian to howl with laughter, head tipped back against the seat, line of his throat inviting David to lean over and darken the light mark still resting on his skin from the night before. “Yeah, I remember.”

And he does, surprisingly, despite how completely black-out drunk he'd been. He remembers Killian's warm hands at his waist, steadying him when he’d tripped his way from the stage to the bar. He remembers the flush, high on Killian's cheekbones, more than just the alcohol coloring his face. He remembers the crowded bar cheering and wolf-whistling when David took care to lace the song with as much innuendo as he could, practically grinding on his husband in full view of his crew. He remembers the taste of rum on Killian's tongue in the back of the cab, mere minutes after David had finished singing and immediately attached his mouth to Killian's neck. He remembers way over-tipping the cab driver before stumbling into their new bed for frenzied, insouciant sex, the kind newlyweds are only supposed to have on their honeymoon but he and Killian had brought back with them. He remembers being 22 and happy, with a brand new husband that David swore hung the moon and every individual star in the sky, and who would pull every one of them down at David's request.

Killian looks that kind of happy now, smiling at David when he turns to look at him at a stoplight. And David wants him, like this, always. So much so that it hurts to even look at him. Because it won't last.

“And it's not even fair,” David says, because he can't not say something. He can't keep looking at Killian when he's looking at David like that. “I wasn't even doing Madonna. I was doing-”

“Eartha,” Killian finishes with him, squeezing his hand reassuringly. “I know, love, I tried to tell them that. I told them that no man of mine would ever choose the Madonna version of anything, if he could help it. It didn't matter.”

_No man of mine._

Thankfully, David doesn’t have to react to the jolt those words give him. They’ve turned on their street by now, and Killian drops his hand to reach for his seatbelt as they pull in the driveway. David cuts the engine with his freed hand, palm radiating with the lingering warmth of Killian’s grasp. He goes to get out of the truck, but something about the look on Killian’s face stops him. It’s dark, so it’s hard to tell, but David thinks he’s frowning as he looks up at the house.

“Why aren’t there any lights on the house?” he asks suddenly, turning that frown on David instead. “It’s almost Christmas. You’re running out of time.”

David averts his eyes, fiddling with the radio for lack of something to do. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Killian that there haven’t been lights on the house since he left.

“Just haven’t had the time,” David lies instead, and Killian’s displeasure is a tangible presence in the cab. The easy, comfortable air disappears, all thought of hand-holding and name-calling gone. David bites back the desire to correct himself. Let Killian think what he wants. He’s leaving. It doesn’t matter.

“That’s always been your problem, huh?” Killian says, not unkindly, almost regretfully, but David doesn’t have an answer in kind. All he has are biting retorts, things he doesn’t want to say, not after the day they’ve had.

He’s saved from his quandary by the flood of light as another truck pulls in behind David’s, diesel engine rumbling loudly in their quiet neighborhood. It’s unmistakably Will, and David follows Killian’s lead, albeit more slowly, when he bails out of the truck with a small sound of delight. He can’t help his smile as he watches Will practically leap from his lifted truck into Killian’s waiting arms, and Killian nearly goes down under the sudden brunt his not-insignificant weight.

“David, looking handsome as ever,” Will calls over to him, ignoring Killian’s muffled cursing from where his face is crushed against Will’s chest.

“Will,” David returns, amused, lifting a hand in greeting. The two friends break apart after a gruff squeeze of affection, and David aches to see the easy smile on Killian’s face. He’s not jealous, exactly, though he’s always envied Killian and Will’s easy relationship. He feels guilty, really, that their own shitty one had come between Killian and his best friend. David thinks they’ve only seen each other once since he and Killian separated, and judging by the enthusiastic reunion, it wasn’t nearly enough.

“It’s about fucking time you showed up,” Killian is saying, slugging Will in the shoulder, no real force behind it. “I called you literally almost twelve hours ago, William.”

Will shoves Killian in return, sending him back a step. David grins to see the offended look on Killian’s face at the obvious disparity of strength.

“It’s not like you were even here to pick up, bastard. You coulda told me you’d gone out galavanting with Mr. Perfect before I drove all the way out here.” David flushes at the nickname, eyes on his shoes as Killian argues. Will’s always liked him, sometimes more than Killian himself. He feels another wave of guilt for letting their friendship die along with his marriage.

“We were not ‘galavanting’,” Killian protests, plural pronoun coming easily. “David, tell him we were not galavanting.” He’s smiling still, though it goes tense around the edges when he meets David’s gaze.

“We were at the lawyer’s,” David provides, watching the same tightness come over Will’s face. He’s great company tonight, it seems. A real mood-lifter.

"Well,” Will says, after a beat of silence wherein Killian stares at David and David stares at a rust spot on his fender, “I’m fucking beat. That piece of junk you call a boat put me through the ringer today. You got stuff? Get it and get in, if you’re still coming with me.” He casts David an uncertain look, which David passes to Killian.

There's a moment when they look at each other, just a moment when David feels his heart rate pick up and his ears ring, a moment where he thinks  _maybe_. But this isn't where Killian wants to be. And he isn't who Killian wants to be with. So Killian hesitates for just a moment, face unreadable, before he turns for the house. David tells himself he’s not disappointed because disappointed doesn't even scratch the surface of what he actually is.

“Back in a jiff!” Killian promises, jogging up the walkway. David almost reminds him of little hazards like ice and snow, but decides he’s played the doting husband enough for someone embroiled in divorce proceedings.

He and Will stand in slightly awkward silence for a bit, but David knows him well enough to know it will be short-lived.

“So, lawyer’s, then?”

David sighs, almost wishing he weren’t so predictable. “Yeah, we got most of the details ironed out. Just gotta do the whole two-month separation thing, and then we get a hearing.”

Will nods, looking reluctant to ask for more but clearly curious. He leans back against his truck, faux casual, and David copies his posture.

“He’s leaving again?” he asks finally, eyes on David’s face. He clucks his tongue sympathetically when David gives a jerky nod, mortified by the hot rush of tears that accompany Will’s words. It’s nothing to cry over, for godsake. He’s not even really leaving, technically. He’s going back, though David’s heart insists the semantics don’t change the action.

“Is that what you want?” Will tries again, gently. David gives a watery laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. What he wants. No, it’s not what he fucking wants. It was never what he wanted.

“I want him to be happy. He’s not happy with me. So,” David trails off, avoiding Will’s knowing look. He should have offered to grab Killian’s bag for him. A little gratuitous chivalry has to be better than this frankly heartbreaking conversation.

“He puked when I told him you’d sent divorce papers. Just dropped the phone, head in the sink, the whole shebang,” Will tells him, voice serious. “He had a meltdown, David.”

“Yeah, well, join the fucking club,” David spits, heated now. How dare Will try to make him feel, what, guilty? Like he's the bad guy of the scenario. Like he was the one that set this whole thing in motion, rather than the one who gave it a concrete definition. “I feel like I’ve been having a two year meltdown. I’m sorry it came as such a surprise to the guy who literally walked out on seven years of marriage and spent the next two in complete silence.”

Will doesn’t appear to be interested in arguing with him, which just makes David angrier. Killian always knew when to give him the fight he was itching for. It’s one of the things he’s missed most, actually. Someone to fight with as well as to love. And speaking of…

“He loves you,” Will says simply, tucking his hands into the pocket of his oversize hoodie, watching David with a careful expression.

“I love him, too,” David replies, easy because that was never the problem. “Sometimes, that’s not enough.”  

Killian chooses that moment to return, to David’s eternal gratitude. It doesn’t prevent Will from giving him one last piece of advice, spoken low for his ears only.

“You should tell him anyway. I think he needs to hear it.”

 _That makes two of us,_  David thinks, giving Killian a tight smile when he joins them. Will claps David on the shoulder before climbing back in his truck, unsubtle in his effort to give David a moment with his husband. David sends a glare his way, careful to hide it from Killian’s watchful eyes.

Will restarts the obnoxious vehicle, prompting David to take a step closer to Killian to be sure he’s heard. Killian lifts a hand towards him but apparently thinks better of it, letting it fall listlessly to his side. He shuffles a bit, scuffing the toe of one boot against the snow, clearly out of his element. David feels that persistent need to soothe his frayed edges, kicking his foot against Killian’s restless one playfully.

“So, you headed back soon or?” he asks when Killian looks up at him, mouth quirked up on one side.

“Soon as I can get a flight,” he confirms, teeth scraping his lower lip uncertainly. “They’re so damn expensive this time of year.”

David feels a flash of responsibility, wishing he’d saved all this for after the holidays. “Send the bill to the lawyer,” he offers. “It’ll get added into the fees we’re splitting. I feel bad that you had to fly out here.”

Killian shakes his head, looking amused. “I can take care of myself, Dave,” he chides, gentle.

“I’m saying you don’t have to,” David contests, not caring how it sounds. Killian’s face is unreadable, but he sways a little closer, bumping his shoulder into David’s.

“You’ve done enough. Lent me a jacket. Took  _real_ good care of me last night,” he adds with what is definitely a smirk, laughing when David blushes hotly. “Here, by the way.” He starts to shimmy out of David’s coat, but David stops him with a hand on his arm.

“Keep it,” David insists, smoothing the material across his shoulders. He refuses to let his hands linger, but even still, he has to fight the urge to take hold of Killian and never let go.

“You sure?” Killian checks, even as he slides the zipper shut. He looks so damn good in the thing.

“It’s technically yours anyway,” David shrugs, fighting a grin when Killian gives him a sharp look. “Granny sent it to you for your birthday last year.”

“Oi!” Killian shouts, mock outraged, digging an elbow into David’s stomach when he laughs. “So that’s how it is? What else have you been holding out on, huh?” His eyes crinkle when he looks at David, laugh lines etched deep despite his attempt at aggrievance.

And it’s a dirty tactic, David knows. Killian didn’t mean anything by it, but still. He can’t help but take advantage of the phrasing. Killian’s eyes go wide when David pulls him in by the folds of his new coat.

Aware that they have an audience, David intends to keep the kiss chaste; just a quick buss, almost platonic, but then Killian moans, soft, and goes pliant in David’s hold, and all logic is abandoned. David crushes him close, Will be damned, and kisses him like he’s meant to be kissed, teeth and tongue and heat. David buries his hands in Killian’s hair, pouring every ounce of longing and loneliness and passion into the kiss, trying to tell him without words how much he wishes things were different. Killian gives as good as he gets, mouth open under the insistent press of David’s own, hands clutching David’s shoulders as he’s bent backward from the force of it all. David keeps his eyes screwed shut, the too-familiar burn of tears prickling at the edges. He can’t hold back the desperate, choked sound he makes quite as easily. Killian shushes him, pulling back to get a look at his face. His hands are chilled when they cup David’s cheeks, but David leans into the touch anyway.

“David, what?” Killian rasps, voice ragged, when he swipes his thumbs through a few errant tears. David shakes his head, embarrassed and overwhelmed, breaking Killian’s hold to bury his face in his husband’s neck, allowing himself one deep, shuddering inhale before he pulls away completely.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quiet and ashamed at his lack of control, stepping outside the reach of Killian’s hands. “I shouldn’t have...I’m sorry. I just love you, you know?” he presses on, ignoring Killian’s faint gasp, ignoring the trembling of his own hands when he runs them through his hair, ignoring the voice in his head that tells him this is a mistake. “I love you, and I hate this. And I don’t want...I  _never_ wanted, any of this. But you do, and I want you to have anything you want. I want you to have everything. And I know it might not seem that way, always, but I do. So you should just...go. Because I can’t,” and here his voice breaks, but he goes on, needs Killian to know, “I can’t stand here for one more second without wanting to just drag you inside and keep you there.”

It’s quiet for a moment, as quiet as it can be with the roar of Will’s truck nearby, and David watches Killian in the interim. Watches his expression shift from shocked to pained to resigned, and David doesn’t ever want him to break the silence. He doesn’t want to hear what he’s about to say, because David’s known him for the better part of a decade, and he knows that look means that Killian is struggling not to break David’s heart.

“David, I don’t-” Killian starts, but David makes a noise, low and pained, and Killian quiets instantly.

“Just go, Kil. The lawyers will be in touch. You won’t have to be here for the hearing, I checked. You can just...go.” David makes a move toward the house, and it’s like the final nail in the coffin when Killian doesn’t try to stop him. “Fly safe, yeah?”

“David,” Killian says once more, but there’s no intent behind it, and David doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t stop when he reaches the door, doesn’t look back, no matter how badly he wants to. He doesn’t stop once he’s inside, not even to check out the blinds as Will’s truck revs. He walks on through the bedroom into the bathroom and doesn’t stop until he reaches the shower. Doesn’t stop to strip or grab a towel. He just steps in, water turned on as hot as it will go, and sinks to the floor. The room fills with steam, and the little skin he has exposed turns an angry red beneath the blistering spray, but still he shivers, a chill settled deep in his bones, originating from the ghost of Killian’s cool touch against his cheek. He sits on the floor and shivers until the water grows cold, but he doesn’t stop falling apart long enough to shut it off.

 

\--x--

 

“You’re an idiot.”

“Will, don’t.”

“I’m just saying. You love him. And the guy’s fucking crazy about you. Always has been. And yet, here you are,” Will gestures to where Killian is zipping up his suitcase, three days removed from his arrival and three hours from his departure. “Just go home, Killian. Just tell him...I don’t know, you had an aneurysm or something and that’s why you got in the truck instead of coming inside.”

Killian shakes his head, wheeling the luggage past Will, ducking the restraining hand he tries to put on his shoulder. “And then what? We spend a couple weeks trying to awkwardly get used to being together again before remembering the only thing we’re good at is making each other miserable? And we’re right back here for the second time, only it’ll be so much messier and terrible and just-” Killian cuts himself off with another firm headshake. He can’t have this conversation again. It’s all they’ve been doing for the past two days, talking and arguing and reminiscing over Killian’s marriage, and he can’t do it anymore. Letting David walk away, after all he’d said, after that  _kiss_ , had been harder than leaving two years ago. It had been the hardest thing he’d ever done, not to tell David he loved him too, always would, but Killian is adamant it’s the right thing. They both deserve the chance to move on. If he has to make David hate him in the process, well. So be it.

Will is looking at him in that way Killian hates, that mixture of exasperated and pitying. He kind of wants to punch him, but he figures that would be in poor taste, considering he wouldn’t have had a place to sleep without him.

“That’s not the only thing you guys were good at,” Will says finally. “You forget I’ve been there for the whole thing. You made each other really, really happy at one time, Killian. Happier than I’ve ever seen you. Happy for a long time.”

Killian snorts, fiddling with the sleeve of his sweater for want of something to do with his hands. It’s the same one he was wearing the day he arrived. The day he and David...well. He hasn’t washed it because he imagines he can still smell David in the fabric, so the collar hangs loose from David’s ardent grasp, and Killian is so fucked. “We all know how that turned out though, huh?”

Will makes an impatient noise, ripping his knit cap off only to shove it right back on, agitated. “Okay, enough. I’ve tried to be supportive here, to not tell you my opinion because you’re my friend and I’m supposed to be on your side. Shut up,” he adds vehemently, when Killian raises an eyebrow. “I haven’t said even half of what I was thinking, but if you’re going to continue to be so fucking dumb about this, I don’t feel like I have a choice.”

He pauses for a breath, and Killian wants to interrupt him before he can even begin, but Killian knows if he doesn’t let him get it out now, Will will continue to look for opportunities to air his grievances. And Killian would really rather not deal with more divorce talk once he’s gone. He wants to leave it all here in Maine. So he lets Will talk, trying his best to tune him out.

Will looks nervous, despite his bravado, but his words gain confidence the longer he talks, to the point where he’s on the cusp of shouting. “Okay, here it is: I think you made a mistake. You never should have left. And while I’ve heard and kind of understand your reasons, I think you blew everything out of proportion. I think you were restless or bored or something, and you looked for reasons to be pissed at David.” He raises a hand when Killian makes a sound, talking over him. “I think that a lot of your problems stemmed from the way you went about getting married, not the marriage itself. You got married too fast, Killian. You didn’t know the guy long enough to learn his middle name, let alone decide you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him. And you got married way too young, on top of it all. 21 year olds have no fucking clue about the world, especially you at 21.”

“I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him the minute I met him,” Killian interjects, unable to let that one slide. Because, despite what literally everyone they knew said to the contrary, he and David didn’t get married too fast. He’ll go to his grave believing that. No matter what happened after, Killian has never regretted the way he and David did it. They were in love, plain and simple, and neither of them saw any reason to delay. Getting married wasn’t the issue. It was the way they dealt with the marriage.

Will rolls his eyes, ignoring Killian’s outburst. “You guys had this whole ‘us versus the world’ mentality because you thought everyone was trying to spoil your happiness by telling you to slow down a little. And it backfired on you. You tried to live in your own little world for what, like five years? And then you started getting on each other’s nerves a little bit because you never had any space.”

“It was more than ‘getting on each other’s nerves’,” Killian argues, fed up with Will’s over-simplification. “We had plenty of space, okay? He was never fucking home.”

“That’s not how I remember it.”

“Well you weren’t fucking there, were you?” He’s shouting now, but Will is nonplussed. He’s seen it all, every aspect of Killian’s temper. The only person who knows him better than Will is David.

Will comes over to him, laying a hand on Killian’s shoulder gently. Killian fights not to shrug him off a second time. He can’t afford to alienate Will, as well.

“Look, I’m sorry if you’re feeling attacked. I just think you jumped the gun a little, alright? You were happy with David for way longer than you were unhappy. And I think that was kinda the problem. Like, you didn’t know how to deal with conflict, real conflict in your relationship. Because,” and here he laughs, a little deprecating, “because you two were like, disgustingly perfect for a long time. We all hated you, a little. With your fucking fairytale meeting and your whirlwind romance and your sickening adoration and your creepy in sync-ness. It was too much, maybe even for you guys.”

Killian bows his head a little, knowing Will is right. It had taken over five years for the shininess of their marriage to wear off, and Killian had struggled to reconcile their new dynamic with the singular devotion typical of their early years. David had grown up over the course of their marriage, accepted more responsibility and longer hours, while Killian’s job never really changed from the beginning to the beginning of the end. He didn’t handle the perceived rejection well, unaccustomed to not always being the center of David’s attention. But David wasn’t faultless, had been stubborn and defensive when Killian tried to bring his concerns to him, and it created a rift that neither of them anticipated becoming a breach.

Killian wants to tell Will he’s right, that his and David’s problems had never been that extreme, that it had spiraled out of control, but all he manages is “I know. I’m gonna miss my flight.”

Wills sighs, slinging an arm around Killian for a conspiratorial squeeze. “You sure you wouldn’t rather I just take you home?”

“I’m going home,” Killian insists stubbornly, but Will shakes his head.

“At least call him when you get back? I’m not blind, okay? I saw you two. And it ain’t over, not by a long shot.”

Killian shrugs, noncommittal, because it will never be over between them, not really. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to be the one to point it out.

So he doesn’t call. Not when he gets back to Oregon, or when the two-month waiting period expires. He doesn’t call after he hears from the lawyer that same day, informing him that they’ve got a hearing scheduled for February 15th. At least it’s not Valentine’s Day. Killian isn’t sure he could appreciate the irony in that. He doesn’t call to tell David that he elected not to attend the hearing, a luxury afforded to him since he didn’t actually petition the divorce.

And he most certainly doesn’t call after he gets the news that they’re officially divorced, no longer married in name or in law. He does get spectacularly drunk and pass out on the kitchen floor, phone clutched in his hand, secretly hoping that David is doing the same thing back in Portland, only he’ll have the courage to actually dial his phone.

And Killian doesn’t call the next morning, when he wakes up a single man for the first time in nearly a decade, cold and achy after a night spent on uncomfortable tiles and decides, fuck it. This isn’t what he wants. He knows that ‘forever’ doesn’t always mean forever, even when sworn in vows handwritten on the back of an anaphylaxis treatment manual because it had been the only paper paramedic-in-training David had had in his truck. But he’d meant it when he said it, even if his voice broke and his hands trembled so bad it took both of David’s to hold one still enough to slip his ring on.

Killian realizes he probably should have shored up this resolve  _before_ his divorce was finalized, but he’s a firm believer in the “better late than never” outlook, and he can only pray that David has the same view.

 _Because I’m fucked if he doesn’t,_ Killian thinks, blinking snow out of his eyes as he stares up at the unassuming exterior of their house. The cab he’d hired to drive him from the airport gives a soft beep as it pulls away, and Killian is left alone with a terrifying sense of deja vu. This trip was a little more intentional than his last, though no less spur of the moment. But this time, Killian isn’t interested in a quick visit. He’s back to stay.

At least that’s what he told his landlord when he turned in his keys this morning, six months before his lease was up. The fee had been steep enough to guarantee Killian will be sleeping on his boat if things don’t go well with David, but none of it matters. Not the meager possessions he’d hastily thrown into storage, not his Oregon crew that he’d left to their own devices, not the fact that technically, he has no claim to this house anymore and could probably be brought up on breaking and entering charges if David’s feeling less than receptive.

The same resolve that drove him here assures him that that won’t be the case, that David had told him months ago that he wanted him here, that David loves him. Killian just has to prove that he loves him too, despite all the evidence he’s given him to the contrary.

And he’s so stupid, so utterly and completely moronic, but Killian doesn’t have time to dwell on that now. He’s been in Maine for under an hour, been divorced for just over 48, and expects David home in about three, which doesn’t leave him a lot of time.

He dumps his suitcases in the living room, more than a single bag this time, but missing one crucial piece of luggage. The ring that he hadn’t been able to convince himself to dig out during his last visit is back where it belongs, a comforting weight he hadn’t realized he’d missed until he’d slipped it on. It had settled into the permanent groove on his finger like it’d never been away, and Killian never planned for it to be again.

Killian pulls a glove on over it now, traipsing back out in the cold to pull the boxes labeled ‘porch lights’ from the garage. He debates grabbing the ‘indoor decorations’ ones as well, but doesn’t think he has the time. Maybe they’ll get those ones together.

A couple hours later finds him wet and cold, shivering against the breeze that’s kicked up, the one he’s convinced only appeared to wreak havoc with his decorating efforts. Killian had managed to get the lights up across the across the front of the house, nail-gunned to the fascia to combat the wind, but now he’s moved on to the bushes and he’s at a complete loss. This is David’s area of expertise. He can weave the strands through and around branches almost effortlessly, with no gaps or holes or clumps of lights, but all Killian has been able to do is squash the sides of two bushes and scratch the hell out of his hands. He has his head buried in one, grumbling as he reaches for the end of the strand he dropped after a particularly vicious jab from an errant branch, when he hears someone pulling into the driveway and freezes.

Killian breathes out slowly, trying to decide if he should straighten up or crawl farther into the bush. He hears the slam of a door, then the crunch of boots on the ever-accumulating snow before they come to an abrupt halt. Abandoning his search for the lights, he turns around, immediately wanting to smack himself for the lame little wave he gives in return for David’s incredulous stare. David’s not dressed for work, for once, instead cutting a fine figure in slacks and what Killian assumes is a button up, collar visible under his standard leather coat. He looks so good that Killian doesn’t mind the too-long silence, content just to be allowed to look for a minute. As always, though, he gets antsy under David’s gaze, shifting around awkwardly.

“You’re home early,” Killian says, apologetically. “Not that I know your schedule or anything, I just assumed…”

“I had a conference,” David replies, sounding far away. “That’s why I’m all,” he gestures weakly at his attire. “I was supposed to stay til five but the next speaker is this really boring guy that I remember from last year and- Killian, what are you doing here?” David interrupts himself, mouth pinched in a frown. “And what are you doing with the lights?”

So not entirely the enthusiastic greeting he was going for, but better than nothing.

“I hated that you never decorated for Christmas,” Killian says sheepishly, hands in his pockets clenched in nervous fists.

If David’s eyebrows climbed any higher, they’d be in his still too-long hair. Killian itches to brush it back from his forehead. To perch him on the edge of the tub and run the clippers over his scalp until it’s back to the short rasp of a hairstyle he’d worn when they first met, the one Killian would constantly scrub his hands across, obsessed.

“You flew all the way back to Maine to hang lights on my house in the middle of February?” David asks dubiously, and Killian feels a little faint when he realizes this is it. Pleasantries have been exchanged, sort of, and now it’s his moment of truth. Thank god David has medical training because Killian thinks he’s in real danger of hyperventilating before the day’s out.

“That’s not the only reason,” Killian starts, pulling his hands out of his pockets, leaving the gloves, to twist his fingers together in front of him, rubbing anxious circles into his ring. David’s eyes follow the movement, widening when he catches sight of the band. Killian takes it as a positive. “I came back because I think we should see a marriage counselor.”

David meets his gaze again, confusion spelled out in every gorgeous line of his face. “We’re divorced?” he says, though it sounds more like a question. Like he’s genuinely concerned that Killian missed the memo and hates to be the one to break it to him.

Killian offers him a feeble smile, meant to reassure. “I know. But I think we should fix that.” He says it so quiet he barely hears himself, but he knows David heard, and whether he can read lips or his hearing is as perfect as the rest of him, Killian doesn’t know.

“Fix it how?” David asks slowly, like he suspects a trap. And here’s where the risk of hyperventilation comes back into play because-

“I think we should get married. Again,” Killian adds, in case David needs the clarification. “I think we should get married again, and I think we should get a marriage counselor to help us work on our marriage.”

“For fuck’s sake, Killian!” David explodes suddenly, but Killian was prepared for such an outburst and doesn’t so much as flinch when David brushes past him, wrenching open the front door and stalking inside. Killian waits calmly, belying the way his heart is rabbiting in his chest. It’s only a moment before David stomps back outside, hands in his hair, tension evident in strong line of his back. For the first time, Killian notices the fatigue around his eyes and wonders if David’s been having a hard a time as he has in the wake of their divorce. Killian feels slightly ill at the thought of David lying awake in their bed, night after night.

Killian watches David pace up and down the walkway for a little while, knowing his husband (ex-husband?) well enough to know that he sometimes needs a little uninterrupted pacing to clear his mind. David faces him eventually, hands linked behind his neck in a gesture of pure aggravation.

“This isn’t how this usually works, you know that? Right? People don’t,” he gesticulates randomly, trying to find the words, “they don’t get divorced, only to turn around and get married again in order to work on their problems.”

“Since when have we cared what people usually do?” Killian asks gently, and David gives him a look.

“We’re not fucking kids anymore, Killian. We’re not young, or naive, or too stupid in love to consider the implications of our actions. We’re 30 and divorced and-”

“And it doesn't work for me, David. Living without you. Being without you. It-” Killian blinks furiously against a rush of tears, needing to tell him. “It doesn't work.”

David makes a wounded noise, burying his face in his hands, and this isn't the reaction Killian expected at all. He gets two steps in, terrified of David's anguish, needing to hold him, before David holds out one hand to stop him.

“It worked for you for two years. What's the problem now that it’s official?” David's voice is harsh, but it's like cracked veneer, prepared to crumble at a moment’s notice. He's shaking slightly, and whether it's from the cold or emotion, Killian isn't sure. He just wants to make it stop.

“It didn't work for me. It never worked for me. I, fuck,” he pauses, swiping furiously at his eyes, his own emotions spilling over with hardly any provocation. “I love you so much, I  _miss_ you so much I can't stand it.”

“So you came here to what, to-”

“Ask you to marry me,” Killian interrupts, quiet, but he doesn't need to be loud to be heard. David's gone deathly still, to the point where Killian isn't sure he's even taken a breath. His eyes are fathomless, searching Killian's face like he's looking for the punchline, like he can't possibly have heard right.

“We were already married, and you left,” he whispers, choked up, and Killian can't take it anymore. The snow crunches noisily under his ardent strides, and David slips a little when Killian hauls him in, arms tight to steady him. He wants to crush David close, whisper into his wind-reddened ear, take the coward’s route so he doesn't have to look him in the eye when he next speaks. But Killian forces himself to keep them face to face, clouds of shared breath mingling in the scant space between them.

“I wanna do it again. I want to do it right, with a ceremony and people and a huge fucking party, so everyone knows how proud I am to be your husband. And I want it to be like it was, but better, because we’re not fucking kids anymore, and we can be smarter about this. Because I love you, and I’m going to do anything to make it work this time. Because going through with that divorce is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, save for ever leaving you in the first place.”

David stares at Killian, quiescent in his hold, disbelief and distrust evident in his gaze, along with some unnamed emotion. Killian tries not to be hurt by it, knows he’s earned at least that much, but the longer David is quiet, the more he feels like this was a mistake. He should have started smaller, with phone calls and subtle relationship building, rather than rushing in, foolhardy as ever, and expecting to be welcomed with open arms. David’s original proposal had been just as out of the blue, but under far better circumstances. David had invited him over the day after Thanksgiving to decorate his shitty apartment for Christmas, and in the midst of gingerbread and tinsel and mistletoe and any number of ridiculous cliches, Killian had made an offhand comment about spending Christmas together that year. He’d thought he’d been pressing a little, seeing as they’d only been together six months, and his heart had sunk when David went quiet, much like he is now.

_“Forget it, you probably already have plans,” Killian rushed to amend, wishing he could take the words back completely. They had such a good thing going, Killian was so ridiculously in love with this guy, he’ll never forgive himself if he ruined it by being too fucking eager._

_He could feel the blush spreading over his cheeks the longer David stared at him, and turned away to hang the ornament in his hands on a random branch. He sensed David come up behind him but was too nervous to face him. He's so gorgeous and perfect and unflappable and Killian's just made an idiot of himself and- Killian jumped slightly when David’s hands smoothed down his arms, turning him gently._

_David searched his eyes for a moment, that damned two inch height difference noticeable at this angle, forcing Killian to tip his head back. He didn’t know if it was a trick of the tree’s lights, but David looked just as nervous and uncertain as Killian felt, seeming to search for words for a long moment. Killian stepped further into his embrace, reaching up to brush his lips along David’s jaw reassuringly. David inhaled a shaky breath, rubbing Killian’s arms from wrist to shoulder and back._

_“What if,” he murmured, voice deep and low and entirely too near Killian’s ear, prompting a shiver, “what if we spent every Christmas together?”_

_Killian pulled back to see his face, trying to gauge his meaning. David was biting his lip, apprehension and excitement mixed with David’s special brand of humble self-assurance. “Like, how?” he asked, fairly sure he knows what David’s getting at but unwillingly to make a monumental fool of himself if he’s wrong. He doesn’t think he is, but still._

_“Like, I’m in love with you. You know I’m in love with you. I have been since,” David paused, brushing fingertips across the still-healing gash at Killian’s brow, concern wrinkling his brow like it always did, “since I met you. It’s not like this unless it’s the real thing, Killian, I know it isn’t. I never want anything but this. So I wanna ask you to marry me, and we’ll spend this and every Christmas together. And I know it’s fast and we’re young and you probably-”_

_Killian pressed his hand over David’s mouth, stopping the rush of increasingly desperate words. “Ask me,” he said, not sure if the tremor in his voice was from excitement or terror. This beautiful, perfect boy wanted to spend the rest of his life with him, and Killian knew what his answer would be before David said another word. But he let him ask, anyway, because he desperately wanted to hear it._

_“Will you marry me?” David asked immediately, muffled around Killian’s palm because he’s too besotted to have the presence of mind to remove it, but Killian’s saying yes before David’s finished asking and Killian’s fingers get in the way of their frenzied kiss and it’s perfect. They’re perfect._

__"When?” David asked next, breathless, and Killian laughed._ _

_“There’s no waiting period for a license in the state of Maine,” he answered, and the brightness of David’s smile burned at the edge of his memory for years to come._

There’s a trace of that smile in his periphery now, but Killian knows better than to expect that same reaction. They were too young to know what they didn’t know, then, but years and mileage have left a burden of knowledge that Killian sees reflected in David’s eyes. He won’t be as recklessly eager this time, Killian can tell, but he still stays quiet, waiting for whatever response David needs to give him.

“I liked getting married at the courthouse,” David says eventually, and Killian wants to weep with relief. “So I think you did do that part right, anyway. We can still have the party if you want, but I want to get married the same way we did before. Just us because-”

Whatever he was going to say is lost in the crush of their mouths, and David’s lips are chapped from the cold, and their teeth clack painfully before Killian fixes the angle, but it’s every bit as perfect as the first time, if they’re keeping score. Killian sobs, a little, and David shushes him, whispers  _I love you_ and  _thank fucking god, Kil_ and  _don’t cry, darlin’, we’re good,_  all of which only serve to make him cry harder, but he’s laughing too, and David pulls him inside when cold fingers start reaching under shirts to unpleasant results.

David collapses back against the couch, and Killian follows immediately, climbing into David’s lap, knees on either side of his hips. David’s hands are at the small of his back, pulling him closer, rapidly warming palms like a brand on Killian’s skin. He brings his own hands to David’s hair, tugging until he gets a soft groan of response. He’s smiling against David’s mouth when David reaches up to catch one hand, bringing it down between them. He breaks the kiss to look at the ring, eyes solemn when they meet Killian’s.

“I took it off in the airport that day,” Killian whispers in reply to the question David didn’t ask. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be wearing yours, and I didn’t want to look like a sap. I’d never taken it off before then, I swear. And I shouldn’t have said what I did. I shouldn’t have said a lot of things, David, I…”

“Don’t,” David says, harsh but not unkind, lifting Killian’s hand to his lips. Killian watches him as he places gentle kisses on each finger, paying special attention to the ring, before turning his hand over to press a biting kiss to the center of his palm. Killian is overwhelmed by how beautiful he is, by how lucky Killian himself is to have him. To have this again, improbable but so right. “We both said so many things, did so many things we shouldn’t’ve, and while I agree we should talk about all of it, I don’t want you blaming yourself, okay? And I’m sorry for trying to blame you for things that I didn’t want to admit were my fault.” David’s voice is steady, but his eyes are wet, and Killian leans in to kiss his eyelids when they drift shut.

“We really fucked this up, huh?” Killian asks, surprised when David gives a watery laugh, meeting his eyes again.

“Big time,” he agrees, running his hands down Killian’s sides to grip his waist.

Killian bites his lip, watching David watch him, debating if he should say what’s on his tongue and risk ruining the moment or let David’s hands continue on their wandering path. But they left so much unsaid before that it drove them apart, and Killian’s already resolved to be better. “Not this time though, right?” he asks, just as the tips of David’s fingers were dipping below the waistband at the back of his jeans. Timing was never one of his strong suits.

Thankfully, David gets his meaning right away and answers without feeling the need to remove his hands. Talented man, his husband. Fiancé?

“Not this time,” David agrees, pressing his fingers into the slight swells at Killian’s hips, keeping his eyes intent on Killian’s face. “I think you’re right in saying we should get some sort of counseling, and I’ll do whatever you want, but I also think a lot of our problems could be solved by talking to each other too, Kil. When we...before, a couple years ago, you shut me out and I shut you down, and we just went on without talking about anything because I think we were both too afraid to rock the boat. We were really fucking lucky,” David muses, tilting his head up for a kiss that Killian gives without hesitation, now that he can. “We didn’t have any rough patches until I got the job with SPFD. When I was freelancing, it was all idyllic. And I’m sorry I didn’t take into account how the new hours would affect you. I was resentful that you were resentful, and I should have realized-”

“I shouldn’t have been such a baby about it,” Killian insists, wincing when he realizes just how often he and David interrupt each other. He makes a mental note to work on it, even though David doesn’t seem to mind. He kisses the bridge of his nose in apology anyway, continuing. “You took that job so we could afford the house. I was just selfish. I hated sharing you.”

David grins at him, a little sheepish. “I liked that you were jealous, at first,” he admits, thumbs pressing into Killian’s hipbones in a little show of possession that sends Killian’s heart rate climbing from where it had settled during their conversation. “I was glad to know you still wanted me, even after all those years of marriage.”

“I always want you,” Killian says, voice gone low, and David’s eyes darken almost imperceptibly. Killian can read the signs though, has been reading them for years. And while he firmly believes that lots of meaningful conversation is the only way to ensure this second marriage sticks, he also recognizes that there will be plenty of time for talk later. Right now, he has a warm and pliant David between his thighs, looking up at Killian like he’s the culmination of every hope he’s harbored, and Killian can’t let that go to waste.

He ducks in just as David stretches up, the two of them on the same wavelength, always, and Killian laughs when he remembers Will calling it ‘creepy in sync-ness’. David takes advantage of his open mouth, curling his tongue around Killian’s for a moment before he pulls back. Killian tries to chase his mouth, but David tips his head away.

“What’s so funny?” he demands, lips shining nearly as brightly as his eyes. Killian shakes his head, pressing kisses to the parts of David’s face he can reach.

“Just thinking about the lecture I got from Will when I left last time. Or all the lectures I’ve gotten from him over the past few months,” he amends with a frown, trying to remember just how many it’s been.

David hums sympathetically, catching Killian’s mouth when it travels across his chin. “Got a few of those myself. Wasn’t too fond of them.”

“Oh yeah? What’d he tell you?” Killian questions, feeling a little protective. Will had no right…

“That I was an idiot,” David smiles at Killian’s snort (“I promise I heard that more than you did.”) “And that I should go after you.” His eyes are serious when he looks up, and Killian smoothes his thumbs over his cheeks in a reassuring gesture.

“Funny, all he ever told me was to go back. That’s conflicting advice. What if we’d ended up on opposite sides of the country anyway, just in reverse?” David’s laugh warms Killian’s chest, seeping into the still fragile cracks of his heart. He’s so beautiful, and Killian is so in love. “I should have stayed,” he whispers, like it’s a secret, shame and regret choking his voice. David makes a disapproving noise, hauling him impossibly closer and burying his nose in Killian’s hairline. Killian clings to him, just a little.

“You’re here now. We’re both here, right where we should be, no matter what it took to get here. Okay? That’s all that matters.” Killian nods against him, unable to meet his eye just yet. But he’s grateful beyond words for David’s soothing influence on him. He lets himself melt into David’s hold for a while, just taking pleasure in being together.

It couldn’t all be gentle words and gentler touches forever, though. If there’s one thing they can always be together, it’s themselves. And David’s self has always been a pain in the ass.

“You’re really heavy, you know,” is what he chooses to break the peaceful silence. Killian squawks in outrage, right by his ear, and David flinches away even as he laughs, pinching Killian’s side in retribution.

“Just for that, I am never moving again. In fact,” Killian goes limp, doing his best to crush David back into the cushion. David laughs again, securing his grip around Killian’s waist, and Killian really should have seen it coming, but he yelps again when David stands up suddenly. This display of strength has always left Killian a little swoony, no matter how hard he insists he hates it. And he knows David knows. That’s why he does it.

Everything feels alarmingly similar to the last time they’d done this, and simultaneously nothing like the last time. There’s no harshness in David’s actions now. He doesn’t drop Killian to the bed, he lowers him, following him down until Killian is pinned beneath his weight. There’s nowhere Killian would rather be, and he twines his fingers in David’s hair to emphasize this point.

David peels him out of his clothes this time, rather than leave him to his own devices. He kisses random patches of skin as they’re revealed, murmuring over and over how  _gorgeous, so gorgeous, Kil, so beautiful_ he is, teeth leaving faint marks in the places he finds particularly enticing.

This time, they kiss while David preps him, unwilling to leave the sanctity of each other’s mouths for anything short of a crisis. When Killian tells him he’s ready, with actions more than words, pressing his hips into David urgently, David draws back to ask him if he wants to use protection, but Killian hears the unspoken  _do we need to?_ behind the inquiry. It hurts, a little, that David feels he has to ask, but Killian can tell by the pained look on his face that he’s only asking out of his innate sense of duty to Killian’s wellbeing. He’s answering a question as much as he’s asking, telling Killian without telling him that there hasn’t been anyone else on his end. And Killian gets the sense that there won’t be any judgement if Killian can’t say the same, though he’s sure it will cut him. Thankfully, Killian can shake his head.

“It’s always only been you, Dave. You gotta know no one could ever even get my attention, let alone-” David kisses him then, having heard enough, and Killian moans gratefully when he feels the catch of David’s cock before he presses forward, minutely, only to draw back after the initial breach of muscle. Killian breaks the kiss again to tease him. “I know we’re doing the whole ‘sweet, slow, reunion love-making’ thing, but you can still  _fuck me_ , David.”

Killian knew he’d pay for his cheek, and he does, when David slows his motion to a virtual drag, so slow that Killian arches impatiently until David’s hands hold him down.

“I’d hoped two years would mellow you out, but you’re still the mouthiest fuck in bed,” David scolds, but his eyes are lined with crinkles, one the most genuine expressions of delight Killian has seen on his face in years. “Can’t you just lie there and be quiet? Or like, moan or something?”

“Maybe if you’d give me something to moan about,” Killian shoots back, nearly cutting himself off when David thrusts home,  _hard_ , helpless to hold back his keening little cry. “David,” he gasps, not caring that it puts a smug smile on David’s stupidly handsome face. He rakes his hands down David’s muscled back, silently pleading for more.

But David’s never been one for silent begging, so he resumes his sedate pace until Killian is practically gnashing his teeth, perfectly content to kiss Killian’s neck and hum to himself.

“David, please,” Killian says suddenly, when a slight shift of David’s hips presses his cock right up against all the right places. David doesn’t even gloat this time, recognizing the desperate pitch of Killian’s voice.

“I got you, babe,” David promises, pulling almost completely out before settling into the kind of relentless pace Killian’s been dying for. “You okay? Let me hear you, Kil, wanna hear you. Tell me what you want, babe, I’ll give you anything you need.” Killian does moan then, real and loud in David’s ear, content to beg now that he knows David isn’t determined to make him, that David only cares for his pleasure.

“Yes, David, please, you’re so good. Just keep doing that, just like that. You’re so perfect, I need you so much. Please don’t stop, don’t ever stop, want this forever, just like this, please.”

David kisses him quiet when his pleas devolve into high-pitched whines, hardly letting him up to breathe in between rough thrusts of his hips. Killian hooks one arm around David’s neck, reaching the other between them for his own cock. David’s hand joins him, wrapping around Killian’s to let him set the pace, but squeezing in that perfect way of his. Killian should feel embarrassed that he’s come at practically virgin speed the last two times he and David have had sex, but the jerky rhythm of David’s thrusts, and the way he shudders on every inhale tells Killian that he’s just a close. So he doesn’t feel guilty when allows himself to crest after just a couple more minutes, mouth open on a faint shout because he knows how much David likes it. “I love you, you’re so good, I love you so much,” Killian gushes, running his hands over the marks he left on David’s back, gentling him even as he presses deep, low groan rumbling against Killian’s chest as he comes.

“Love you,” David mumbles back, almost fiercely, lifting his head to kiss Killian firmly on the mouth. Killian fits a hand to the back of his neck to hold him there for a moment before David sprawls atop him, head dropping away to nestle into his collarbone with a contented sigh.

Killian glances down at the mess between them, at the possessive hand David splays across his filthy stomach, and smiles in amusement. “Yeah,” he drawls, slow and teasing, so deliriously fucking happy. “I kinda got that.”

 

-x-

 

David can tell by the slam of the door that his husband has come home in a mood, and tries to take a moment to mentally prepare himself for whatever drama that inevitably involves. He calls out when he feels sufficiently ready, striving for airy. Or something close to it. David prides himself on being a little too serious for airy.

“Hey, babe! I’m making chili for dinner, sorry if that’s lame. But it’s cold and I’m beat, so I figured it’s kind of perfect.” David pauses, waiting for an answer before continuing. “There’s cornbread, too. And Ruby gave me like half a pie when I was in there for lunch today. So we’ve got all the bases covered.”

Still no response. This is probably pretty bad.

David leaves the chili to simmer as he wanders off in search of his recalcitrant husband, peering around the half-wall of the kitchen into the living room. Keys on the table confirm that Killian had come in at some point, but David neither sees nor hears him. He sighs, heading for the bedroom. He can only imagine what kind of a scrum Killian had gotten into with the crew today.

It had been an adjustment, to say the least, Killian coming home. Not for David, really, because Killian belongs in David’s space and in David’s life, but just in general. There had been a couple trips back to Oregon to retrieve possessions and square away his second crew, trips that David had politely declined to join him on. He hadn’t had any desire to see the place that Killian made a life without him, and Killian understood, even as he assured David that it hadn’t been any kind of life, that he had been “fucking miserable without you, love”. He’d meant it in a comforting sense, but it only served to upset David. He didn't want to be anywhere Killian had been unhappy. So he’d stayed behind, always delighted to see Killian again when he came home.

And his crew, his original crew, had been delighted too. At first. Until Killian had resumed his job in full capacity, and the men were reminded that Killian was much more of a hardass than Smee could ever hope to be. David, for one, loved that side of his typically laidback husband, that ability to become a leader when the situation called for it. His crew, however, resented being put back to the grind and had been giving Killian a hard time. David could tell Killian mourned the loss of their rapport, so he tried to be as supportive as he could when Killian brought his complaints to him after work, rather than confronting his men. But it’d been nine months since Killian had come back, and David felt it was well past time to say enough is enough. If they don’t want to work like Killian expects them to, then they can go somewhere else. But Killian still lets his guilt over leaving eat at him occasionally, and David’s primary focus is easing that burden.

It affects them too, sometimes, snide remarks or slips of the tongue bringing all of that hurt back to the surface, but they’re working on it. They’d started seeing a counselor not long after they’d remarried, and were slowly learning how to communicate effectively again, although their counselor assured them that they were doing amazing.

David felt amazing, honestly. The first few months had been a little tense, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for their next fight to be their last, or, unfair as it was, for Killian to take off again. But he didn’t, and David knew now that he wouldn’t. This was it for both of them, and it was so good that David often asked Killian to pinch him, just to check if he’s real. Killian always complied, David’s arms hosting the bruises to prove it. He had a lot of bruises these days, but he doesn’t mind so much, especially when he sees the way Killian’s eyes light up when he catches sight of one.

David is still waiting to catch sight of Killian at all, a glance in the bedroom showing it to be empty. Just as he is about to call out for him again, David hears the shower start up. He ducks back in the kitchen to turn the heat off the burner before making his way to their ensuite. Killian had left the door cracked, but steam still obscured most of the room when David let himself in. He debates calling Killian’s name, not wanting to startle him. David boosts himself up on the sink, deciding to wait until Killian turned the water off to make his presence known. He watches Killian’s silhouette through the glass of the sliding door, leanness of his figure accentuated by the textured pattern. David wonders if it’s a bit creepy to sit and watch him shower without his knowledge, but knows Killian won’t mind. He’ll probably get a kick out of it, knowing him.

It’s only a couple minutes more of running water and what David quickly figures out is Killian muttering to himself before Killian twists the handle with more violence than is strictly necessary, ripping the towel he’d flung over the door down with equal vehemence. David fights a laugh at the behavior, calling Killian’s name softly. The shower door cracks open, letting out a rush a steam before Killian’s head emerges, hair tousled wildly from the rough treatment he’d given it moments before.

“Hi,” he says shortly, grimacing when David raises an eyebrow at his tone. “I mean, hi baby, I’m sorry.” He steps out, dripping on the bathmat as he continues to dry himself vigorously. David lets his eyes travel over him in an exaggeratedly lecherous way, and Killian huffs a laugh, coming to stand between David’s legs at the sink. He stretches for a kiss, radiating warmth along David’s front. David hums into the kiss, lingering for a minute because damn it, he’d had a bad day too. He needs this, just for a little bit. Killian obviously feels the same, angling himself closer, some of the tension leeching out of his shoulders as David cups his jaw in both hands. He bites at David’s lip before pulling away regretfully, glaring when David lands a sharp smack on his bare ass.

“Hi,” David breathes, leaning in for a second quick kiss. “Wanna tell me what the glower shower was all about?”

Killian shoots him another look, and David laughs. “Sorry. Wanna tell me why you’re upset, dear?”

“I’m not telling you anything,” Killian grouses, wrapping his towel firmly around his waist, looking smug when David pouts. “You don’t deserve it.”

“I made you dinner?” David offers as he jumps down to trail Killian into the bedroom, frowning down at the twin handprints on the knees of his jeans, material soaked through where Killian had rested his hands there. Killian is pulling on a pair of sweats, sans underwear because he’s evil, so David doesn’t feel remiss in dressing down, either. He steps out of the jeans and smiles when Killian pulls out another pair of sweats, tossing them his way without even looking while he struggles to pull a shirt over his wet shoulders.

“I love you,” Killian sighs dreamily, emerging from the collar of the shirt with hair even more mussed than it’d been before, if that’s possible. David reaches to smooth his fingers through the wayward strands, and Killian leans into the touch with another sigh. He goes as far to drop his head onto David’s shoulder, wrapping an arm around his waist to steer him toward the kitchen. David goes without a fight, depositing Killian in a chair and rummaging through a cabinet for a couple bowls. Killian can reach the silverware drawer from his seat, pulling out spoons before David can ask. David cuts into the cornbread and lines the bottom of the bowls with it before adding a generous helping of chili to both. He brings toppings along with him when he goes to sit, but Killian reaches to pull him in his lap before he can.

“It smells so good, thank you,” Killian mumbles into David’s neck, kissing his collarbones and the hollow of his throat before he straightens up, digging into his bowl.

David lets him eat in peace for a minute before curiosity gets the better of him again. “Killian,” he starts, but Killian talks over him.

“How was work, babe? You look kinda tired. Were you out at the big crash on 295?” Killian asks quietly, once he knows David isn’t going to press.

“Yeah,” David confirms, annoyed at the interruption, but he knows Killian genuinely cares about his day, too. “It was a nightmare. Black ice, you know the drill.” Killian winces knowingly, squeezing David close for a second. “I won’t go into details because we’re eating, but this one girl got...really fucked up. It was tough to see.” David swallows roughly, remembering the abject agony in the young girl’s eyes before they’d managed to get her triaged. Killian kisses under his jaw comfortingly, sticky lips undoubtedly leaving traces of chili behind. “What about you? What’d you get up to today?”

Killian ignores the question for a bit, focusing on his food, but once he’s finished he has no other means of stalling. He shifts a little, like he wants to get up to avoid answering, but David refuses to budge from his place in his lap. Killian grunts in displeasure, tipping his head back to gaze at David imploringly. David stares back, unmoved, and Killian jabs him in the ribs.

“Fine,” he whines and David doesn’t smile, but he definitely wants to. “The guys were...they said some stuff that just...like, really pissed me off.” David shifts to give him his full attention, frown already in place.

“What kind of stuff?”

Killian rubs his free hand across his eyes, the other toying absently with the hem of David’s shirt. “I was telling them about our trip next week, and they were asking about the occasion, and when I told them it was our anniversary they kind of,” Killian swallows roughly, and David can see the glint of anger in his eyes. “They said that one doesn’t count anymore, since we...you know. Got divorced. I told them it was our tenth and they said we haven’t even had our first yet, since the other wedding was in February.” David starts to protest, but Killian isn’t done, so David forces himself quiet. “I mean, I guess they’re technically right-”

“They’re not right!” David interjects, seconds after he told himself he wouldn’t. “They’re not right, Killian, they’re assholes for even suggesting that to you.”

Killian shakes his head, eyes on the table. “They're not assholes. They just...don't understand how we can still count this as our anniversary when the marriage that it's the anniversary of is over.”

David takes a moment to parse that sentence, tripping over some of the logic, before he argues back. “That marriage is not over, Killian. That marriage is this marriage, right here.” David gestures between them exaggeratedly, and Killian catches his hand to stop him.

“Okay, fine,” he says, a bite in his tone. “The marriage is the same, but the wedding isn't. We have a new wedding date, remember?”

Of course David fucking remembers. It's probably the happiest day of his life, or at least tied with their first wedding. Killian had been somewhat adamant about wanting to celebrate with friends this time, and David had been happy to indulge him. But the ceremony had been exactly the same as before, exactly as perfect. Just the two of them, down at the courthouse. They’d gone after Killian had been home a couple of days, before anyone even knew they were back together. Then they’d left almost immediately after to spend a few days in Florida, eager to escape the biting cold associated with February in Maine. The thing David remembers the most about the trip is Killian’s tan had lingered for weeks.

Coming home again had been an unwelcome lesson in the realities of hiding things from your friends, one that they really should have learned the first time they’d gotten hitched without telling anyone. David still isn’t convinced he’s regained full hearing back in his left ear after the dressing-down he’d gotten from Ruby. It’d been worth it to see the sweet flush of sheepishness on Killian’s face as they spread the news from friend to friend, receiving pretty much the same reaction across the board. Will, for his part, had been unsurprised, and David’s partner Robin had pulled him into a hug while shaking hands with Killian behind his back. They both claimed to have seen it coming, and Killian’s conspiratorial glances had been the only thing that kept David from arguing that there’s no way they could possibly have known.

Everyone person they’d managed to piss off was placated by the truly massive party they’d thrown themselves a few weeks later, and David will never forget the look on Killian’s face when David had pulled him onto the floor of the hall for their “first” dance. Killian’s smile threatened to swallow his entire face when he whispered to David how “fucking cheesy, you sap. Dean Martin, even.” David had laughed back, the sound drowned under the brass of ‘I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm’. It had been amazing, all of it, but David had never considered that wedding a negation of their first. More like an addendum.

“I see it like a vow renewal,” David says now, pinching Killian when he shakes his head. “No, listen. People renew their vows all the time, usually on a different day than their actual anniversary. But that doesn’t mean that new day replaces the old one. It’s separate.”

“We weren’t renewing vows, though. We had to take new ones, because we broke the old ones,” Killian argues stubbornly, and David shoves his way off his lap.

“Why did you get so pissed at your crew then, if you’re in such agreement with them?” he asks, hotly, clearing the table for something to do, clanging dishes in the sink and running the water at full blast. He keeps his back to Killian, even when he hears the scrape of his chair across the wood floor. Killian comes up behind him, fitting himself to David’s back, and reaches around him to shut the water off. His chin comes to rest at the junction of David’s neck and shoulder, and David tips his head away, giving him room. Killian’s arms are around his waist, and he’s nosing at the fine hairs behind David’s ear, trailing light kisses as he goes.

“I don’t agree with them,” he says lowly, holding David firm when he starts to twist away. “I’m sorry, I’m in a bad mood, and I was trying to take it out on you. That’s not fair.”

“No,” David agrees, threading his fingers with Killian’s, squeezing to let him know it’s okay. “They shouldn’t have said that to you, Killian. It’s not up to them or anyone else to define the terms of our marriage, okay? So unless you really don’t feel like the tenth is our anniversary anymore-”

“I do!” Killian insists stridently, turning David around in his arms, pressing him back into the sink. “That’s the day I married you, that’s the day I want to celebrate being married to you. That’s our day.”

David smiles at him, lacing his fingers behind his neck, tugging at his hair to watch Killian’s eyes droop. “So fuck them, yeah? They’re just jealous none of them have managed to marry someone who still looks as good as I do, even after ten years.” Killian’s laugh is still David’s favorite sound, and he leans forward to taste it, smiling when Killian continues chuckling.

“I’m not sure I want any of them thinking about you in those terms,” Killian says seriously, stifling his own laughter, but he’s lost the tension he’s been carrying all evening, so David doesn’t pay him any mind.

“That’s what you get for choosing a trophy husband,” David sighs and Killian snorts another laugh, reaching up to take one of David’s hands and using it to pull him towards the couch. David spares a thought for unwashed dishes and congealed chili before he lets it go, allowing Killian to tug him down into the cushions, shifting around until Killian’s legs are resting comfortably in his lap.

They watch the news in companionable silence for a while, hands twined as Killian fiddles with David’s ring, an unconscious habit of his. He twists it around and around absently, until David has to ask.

“Babe?”

“Hm?” Killian replies, not taking his eyes off the screen. David watches him for a moment, debating how he wants to phrase this. He eventually just decides on straightforward, because he’s not interested in tiptoeing around sensitive issues with Killian ever again.

“This isn’t, like, you don’t think the reason it upset you so much is because you still...you know. Feel guilty or whatever? Like you messed it up?” Killian’s brow furrows and he opens his mouth, but David rushes on. “Because I know you did, for a while, but you shouldn’t, you know I don’t feel that way. I love you, and I love us, and I don’t regret anything about what happened as long as it means we’re here now.”

Killian swings his legs to the floor, turning to face David without letting go of his hand. He goes to say something but shakes his head, sighing instead. David waits patiently, eyes on the tightness of Killian’s mouth. “Maybe a little,” he admits quietly. David makes a disapproving sound, and Killian gives him a brief smile. “I just can’t help feeling like I made everything such a mess, you know? We shouldn’t have to debate whether we’re on year one or ten, if our anniversary is in December or February. And it’s my fault we have to.”

“I sent the divorce papers,” David reminds him, hating that he has to. But Killian is bad for trying to assume all the blame for their separation, something David is unwilling to concede. And how different that is from where they were three years ago.

“Only because you felt like you had to.”

“Killian,” David starts, hint of exasperation creeping into his voice. Killian squares his shoulders, ready for the inevitable fight, but he goes lax at the first press of David’s mouth to his. David kisses him firmly, arguing without words, and Killian listens for once, opening up to David’s touch beautifully. David keeps it deliberately slow and gentle, not wanting to take it beyond this, right here. Killian tastes like spice and salty air. He always tastes of the ocean, no matter how long he’s away from it, and the familiarity of it warms David to his core.

He thanks God or fate or the stars that he gets to have this, every day, for the rest of his life. A year ago, if someone told him that he and Killian would be here now, on their still ridiculously expensive couch, resolving an argument with a kiss rather than a plane ticket, gearing up to leave on a week-long vacation to celebrate ten years of marriage, David probably would have punched them for making such a cruel joke. As it is, he pulls Killian impossibly closer, savoring their time the way he should have from the beginning.

“I should have stayed,” Killian whispers at one point, something he says often, bitter tang of regret in his voice. And it's probably always going to be a sore point, patched and healed but always scarred, and David can still taste the ashes in his mouth from the moment he realized Killian had left. But he's had enough guilt and hurt and blame to last a lifetime, and he refuses to let Killian carry it with him, either. So David shushes him, like he always does, with his words as much as his kiss.

“You did.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> title and inspiration is [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R1-HAuT5Me4), additional tunes i listened to nonstop while writing are [here](http://8tracks.com/captaincharming/back-there-with-you), and come say hi on tumblr [here](http://backwardstraveller.tumblr.com/) or [here](http://hookedoncharming.tumblr.com/)
> 
> as always, thanks so much for reading and being patient and leaving wonderful comments! i appreciate it all, even though i accidentally deleted all the comments on this. sorry about that....


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